


keep your friends close and your enemies really, really close

by writer_on_fire01



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: At least until it's not, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, First Kiss, Slow Burn, very (!) minor Lorelai/Luke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 90,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27499342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer_on_fire01/pseuds/writer_on_fire01
Summary: Paris navigates the perils of being a high schooler with a gay crush on her best friend (not that anybody's bothered to give her the memo on that one), all the whilst trying her hand at dating boys, namely one Tristan Dugray, which goes about as well as you'd expect.Societal convention is a bitch.
Relationships: Paris Geller & Madeline Lynn & Louise Grant, Paris Geller/Rory Gilmore
Comments: 133
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Throughout this fic I will be heavily referencing/downright stealing canon scenes. I figured I'd mention because, while this is fanfiction and therefore copies the canon content by nature, I guess I just don't want to claim all of the dialogue as my own.

Paris isn’t entirely sure why she’s come all this way.

Really, it had been a lousy idea on her part. Driving forty minutes to Stars Hollow to get ready for a date which she’ll now have to drive back to get to. 

She probably could’ve cobbled together a decent date outfit out of her own wardrobe. Then again, judging by the way Rory had grimaced upon seeing its contents, maybe not.

Of course, it helps that she’d begun the process of date preparations two and a half hours prior to Tristan’s allotted pickup time. She’d spent twenty minutes fretting about it in her own home, forty minutes driving to Stars Hollow, and twenty more minutes discussing potential date attire with Rory. This means that if she needs forty more minutes to drive back, she’ll still have thirty minutes. This gives some good wiggle room for unaccounted for factors such as traffic or a last-minute change in hairstyle. 

Or standing in front of Rory’s house, just staring at the door for longer than is strictly necessary. This particular activity is the one in which she is currently indulging. 

Paris should get in her car. She should drive back home and spend a half hour pacing around her room, breaking into nervous sweats over the prospect of a date and then even more nervous sweats at the realization that the original nervous sweating has probably done a number on what little makeup she’s trusted herself to apply without messing up. She should go on her date with Tristan and charm him; maybe she won’t even have to use the notecards.

She should get married to a man at a young age and have his children and become one of those stuck-up mothers who spends her days fretting over apple pie and cleaning things and social functions. Send out personalized family holiday cards every year to the couple friends she will undoubtedly have acquired. If she’s lucky she won’t even end up a divorcee. 

Paris could also do a number of other things. She could drive to Canada, dye her hair brunette and get her name legally changed to Amy. She could join the circus or buy a multitude of domesticated rats. Abandon city life and live in a yurt in the middle of nowhere with a disturbingly large amount of chickens. To be honest, she’s not feeling like doing any of the above.

Paris could also knock on Rory’s door and confess that she was right about Tristan being a total airhead and skip out on her date. 

But societal convention is a bitch and Paris ends up choosing the first option. She won’t be learning to walk a tightrope anytime soon, that’s for sure. 

Paris realizes with a start that she’s been just sort of standing there for far too long and that if she intends to get back to her house in time for Tristan to pick her up she’ll have to get in the damn car at _some_ point in her pathetic, insignificant life.

Besides, Tristan would be the ideal boyfriend for her. He’s conventionally attractive. He’s confident. All of the girls at Chilton want him, which is an added bonus (making her classmates cry is one of Paris’s favorite hobbies). 

Paris takes her notecards from her pocket, glancing at the different conversational topics she’s got planned out. The French Revolution is a good one, as is the topic of vampiric romance in literature, because who doesn’t love Dracula? But nobody can deny that it’s probably not the kind of date small-talk Tristan is used to.

The thing is, Paris still can’t exactly put her finger on why Tristan had asked her out in the first place. It’s so off-kilter. This isn’t her being self-deprecating; she’s a catch. It just doesn’t add up. She’s so far from his type that she couldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole. 

Paris, at this point, finally remembers to get in the car and start driving. Street lights and Monty The Rooster whir by. Stars Hollow is sort of scenic, in a weird way. It’s pretty-- not that Paris cares about pretty. 

What if Tristan likes her? It’s the logical conclusion given that he’s asked her out. Yet it seems somehow unlikely. Tristan dates a lot of girls. More likely than not it’s a habitual thing for him. Maybe he’s just making his way around the whole female population of Chilton and has finally gotten to her. 

Rory says that he likes her. Rory is usually right. Rory is trustworthy. What if Rory’s right? 

Paris genuinely can’t imagine having a boyfriend. She doesn’t really have any close relationships, save for her nanny (does her nanny even count? Debatable). 

Well, Rory told her that it’s going to go great and Rory is always right so it probably will. 

By the time Paris gets back to her house and checks the time, it’s ten minutes until her date. Huh, thank gosh for wiggle room. And then, eleven minutes after that (because the cool boys are never punctual) Tristan is at her door. 

Paris is almost afraid to open it. When she does, she is greeted with Tristan. He’s wearing a denim jacket, a pair of khakis, and a plain white V-neck. His hair is artfully tousled in the way that looks effortlessly cool and frankly, rather intimidating.

He offers her his usual I’m-a-cool-boy smile. “Hey, Paris. You look…” He stops to appraise her outfit. “Nice.” 

Huh. She looks _nice._ A pretty typical first date comment, and Paris is already overanalyzing it. Does she look nice? Is Tristan just saying as much to be polite? Is he going to go home and laugh at her? Will there be a second date?

“Er, thanks,” Paris mumbles in response. “You, too,” she adds when she realizes she’s probably expected to reciprocate the comment in some way. 

“Thank you,” says Tristan. His smile widens and his head cocks back slightly. He runs a hand through his hair. “So, shall we?” He offers Paris his arm.

Paris stares at the arm. She raises her own hesitantly, as though trying to figure out what to do with them. She is halfway through hooking their elbows together-- because _that’s_ not weird-- when Tristan gives her a _what the hell are you doing_ look of bemusement and she has the good sense to abort the movement.

“Can we hold hands?” she asks eventually, then feeling as though she needs to explain herself. “Because I don’t know what to do with your arm right now and it’s freaking me out.” 

Tristan laughs. 

“Are you laughing at me?” Paris demands, affronted.

“Jesus, no,” Tristan clarifies. “Why would I be laughing at you?”

“Because I said something stupid and you laughed,” says Paris bluntly. “Unless I’m misinterpreting the situation it seems very much like you were laughing at me just now.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” Tristan assures her. “And here.”

He grabs her hand with his alternate arm and places it on the first.

“Oh, thanks,” says Paris. “I don’t date. Or watch movies. This seems like the kind of plight I could have easily avoided by watching movies. I don’t watch movies. Rory watches movies, but Rory’s not here right now.”

_I bet Rory would’ve known to put her hand on Tristan’s arm._

“You’re right,” Tristan agrees. “Rory isn’t here right now. And we can amend your not-watching-movies problem by catching one tonight.”

“S-sure,” Paris stammers. “Which, er, which movie did you have in mind? There are so many. Lots of them are really not good, though, and to maximize our potential as a couple we should really pick a good one. Bad experiences _do_ bond people, but it seems a little on-the-nose to seek out a bad experience specifically for the purpose of bonding.”

Tristan gives her the same bemused look from earlier. 

“Well, what do you want to go see?”

 _Shit._ Paris had been entirely unprepared for this question.

“Well, there’s that one about the tailor in Panama. I’ve heard it’s...well, I’ve actually heard it sort of sucks, but it’s literally the only movie currently in theaters that I can think of right now.” She looks hopefully up at Tristan.

“Welp, _The Tailor Of Panama_ it is,” he says, reverting back to his I’m-a-cool-boy smile. 

Paris continues her incessant rambling throughout most of the date-- okay, the whole time. She rambles the whole time, she just can’t help it; it’s a nervous habit. Even during the movie. She gets glared at by the other people trying to watch the movie.

“Oh, piss off,” she mutters to one woman in particular after she attempts to inform Paris that _sweetie, some people are trying to watch the film._ “Nobody cares. I’m not bothering anybody. Right, Tristan?”

Tristan says nothing. Paris shuts up after this. 

The movie isn’t even that good. It’s alright, but after Paris spends half of it nervously rambling and is thereby unable to pay attention, she has no idea what’s going on for the second half and has a hard time focusing on it.

It’s an immense relief when the credits finally roll around.

“Good, right?” asks Tristan, turning to her as they go to leave the theater.

“Yes,” Paris ends up saying. It’s a lie, of course, but somehow she can’t bring herself to argue with Tristan. It’s ludicrous, really. Paris loves arguments. She jumps at any and all opportunities to start them, and always wins. Often her opponent is left crying. It’s why Paris loves debate so much. And yet she fears that if she dares disagree with this-- this _boy_ \-- that he’ll laugh in her face and she’ll be alone forever. 

It’s completely and utterly ridiculous. Paris doesn’t need to worry about being alone forever, anyways. She won’t be (right?). 

_Oh, come on, Paris. He’s just a boy. Get over it._ It’s too late to drop the whole liking-the-movie act, though, so she decides to sticks with it. 

“I liked the part when, uh, he went to the airport,” she continues, simply because it’s the only scene she can even remember. 

“Yeah, me too,” says Tristan. He’s giving her a strange look, though, and Paris has to wonder if the date is going well. She thinks it’s been alright. They’d enjoyed the food at the mediocre Italian diner. Paris had only had to escape to the bathroom once-- okay, twice, but the second time doesn’t count because she actually _had_ had to wash the pasta sauce off of her hand-- which is better than she’d expected.

“We should do this again sometime,” she blurts out. “I mean. Not this movie. It would be very redundant to see the same movie twice, and I hate redundancy. Hate it in my sentences and hate it in, uh, everything else, too. So, how about it?” It comes out a little bit too quickly and she stumbles over a few of the words.

“We’ll see,” says Tristan noncommittally. 

“Well, what does _that_ mean?” Paris demands, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“It means we’ll see,” Tristan says plainly. Now is he not only giving her the strange look, he’s blasting it straight through her skull. Paris frowns.

“I just hate how vague that is,” she tells him with a slight scowl. “I mean, it totally puts me at your mercy. If anything, _you_ should be at _my_ mercy. I’m gonna become the first female president of the United States one day, you know.” 

Tristan raises his eyebrows. “Really.”

“Yeah. I mean, unless another woman gets to it before me, which, don’t get me wrong that that would be great, but I seriously doubt it will with all the misogyny floating about.” 

“Welp, I’m looking forward to that,” says Tristan crisply as they leave the building.

“Really?” asks Paris suspiciously. “You don’t look as though you are.”

“Well, believe me when I say I am,” Tristan insists.

“You’re not misogynistic, are you? Because I don’t think I could ever date a misogynist.” 

“Not the last time I checked.” Tristan sucks in a breath. Paris thinks she sees him check his watch. He mutters something under his breath, too, but Paris doesn’t quite check that. 

“Well, could you check again?” 

Tristan looks up from his watch. “You know, you’re cute,” he tells her flatly. 

“You think?” Paris doesn’t quite meet his eye in her nervousness, instead opting to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Sure,” says Tristan with an easy grin. “You have a lot of...opinions.” 

This much, Paris can’t argue with, nor does she want to.

“All the best people do,” she agrees. “So, about the second date thing?”

“Let’s take this one date at a time, shall we? Get in my car.”

Paris does so with little complaint. 

Later, when he’s finished driving her home, when they’re standing at her door, he kisses her. Paris has never kissed a boy before; there was that time with Tristan in sixth grade, but that had been on a dare so it doesn’t really count (plus, sixth grade). 

It’s interesting. Paris has spent more time than she would care to admit wondering what it is that makes kissing so special. As it turns out, nothing. It just feels like somebody else’s mouth is on hers, which, okay, she probably could’ve predicted. It’s a good kiss, though. Paris can tell-- Tristan has kissed a lot of people, and he seems confident in the affair. Plus, it’s a rite of passage. Paris loves rites of passage. 

Then, there’s the fact that somebody is, without the incentive of blackmail or peer pressure, kissing her. Without gagging. It makes Paris think that maybe, impossibly, Rory was right. That he likes her. _You’re cute,_ he’d said. That’s the kind of thing boys say to other girls, like Madeline or Francie or maybe Rory. Definitely Rory. Not Paris, though, at least not until now. It feels special. 

Tristan likes her. 

***

“Hey, you’ve reached Tristan Dugray. I’m not here to take your call right now, but leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you in no time,” the answering machine tells Paris. She notices that he puts emphasis on _no time_ , saying it like it’s one word. One excessively cool word. _Notime._

 _He’s so cool,_ Paris thinks fondly.

Then, the answering machine lets out a shrill _beep_ and Paris is left to her own devices in formulating an appropriate message for Tristan.

“Hey, Tristan. It’s Paris. I was just, uh, calling to say I had fun tonight. And that I hope you did too, and that I’ll see you tomorrow.” Paris figures it’s a good place to stop the message, so she does. “Goodbye.” 

She does homework for thirty minutes, waiting for Tristan to call her back. He’d said he would. _In no time_. How long, Paris has to wonder, is no time? Because if he’d actually gotten back to her in no time, there would have been no need to leave him a message in the first place. 

He doesn't call. This is greatly irritating: thirty minutes definitely marks the passage of time, so it is decidedly _not_ no time. Damn humans and their strange, hyperbolic manner of speaking. 

Before Paris can stop herself, she’s back at the phone.

“Hey, you’ve reached Tristan Dugray…” The message plays out just like before, right down to the beep at the end.

“Hey. Paris again. I, uh, left a message already, but, you know, sometimes people forget to check their voicemail, so I thought that maybe you’d pick up this time. Or something. I don’t know, it was probably stupid. But since I’m already here, well, hi! I hope you have a good night. Goodbye.” 

Again, the little Tristan on the answering machine has promised to get back to her _in no time_ and again it’s a lie. Two more hours pass. 

“Hey, Tristan. It’s Paris again. Again. I’m just calling to let you know that you should probably change your recording thingy. I don’t actually know what they’re called; I’m not all that tech savvy. Probably comes as a bit of a shock, since I’m, uh, savvy in so many areas. Not tech. Surprise! Anyways, yeah. Change it, because it makes you look like a liar, because you say you’ll get back to the caller in no time and then you don’t. You should change it to say something along the lines of _I’ll get back to you after a reasonable passage of time_. That would, uh, be more realistic. See you tomorrow.” 

Then, thirty minutes later: “Hey, Tristan. Me again. Paris is me. I’m Paris. Anyways. It occurs to me that my last message may have come across as a bit rude. That’s just how I come across sometimes, or so people tell me. Rude is so derogatory. I prefer the term blunt. It’s much more accurate to my particular disposition. Anyways, I really did have a great time last night. Amazing. One of the best nights I’ve ever had. Not that that says much, but still. You’re great, and I liked eating with you. I just wanted to thank you for taking me out because, uh, when somebody does something nice for you like buying you dinner and a movie or just going out with you in the first place, you should probably thank them. It’s what a non-blunt person would do. So, anyways, thank you. Call me. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow. I mean, I’ll see you tomorrow no matter what happens, unless you have mono or something, which I really hope you don’t because mono is passed through saliva and we kissed last night. You probably don’t have mono so the point is moot. Whatever. Goodbye.” 

An hour and a half later: “It’s been five hours since I called, Tristan. Not _no time_. Do better. That was a joke.” It hadn’t actually been a joke. She had been entirely serious about it, but it had once more occurred to her that it was a little _blunt_ and it’d seemed like the kind of thing Rory would say as a joke, and Rory is funny, so she’d pegged it on. 

She just hopes that it makes her come across as more friendly and approachable. Sources have told her that she’s neither of the two. These same sources have called her _scary_ and _intimidating_ which, while such things would be useful in a political setting, are not ideal for dating.

It doesn’t matter. Tristan gets her. 

_You know, you’re cute._

***

“You noticed it too, right? That we’re sort of more friends material then dating material?” 

Paris stares, frozen, at Tristan, who has just announced to her that they are, while not compatible as a couple, basically besties now: besties who can go to dinner and a movie anytime, just not as anything more than _friends_. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Paris deadpans. “I have excellent deductive skills.” 

“But hey, I’m glad we did it,” Tristan continues, looking down from her from where he sits on his desk. Who sits on desks? Paris may have, at one point, thought such a thing to be cool and boyish but now she can’t, for the life of her, figure out why. Boyish, sure, but at this point she’s not even sure boyish is desirable. Now she’s just angry, because Tristan has just rejected her and nobody should be able to wrong Paris Geller and get away with it. Perhaps the most frustrating part is just that; Tristan is probably, at the end of the day, going to get away with this relatively unscathed where Paris will leave eternally bitter. 

“Oh, sure,” she says, offering him a mildly sarcastic smile. Of course he doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm. 

“When Rory first suggested us going out,” Tristan says-- Paris stiffens-- ”I thought the idea was crazy but she made some good points. We do have some history and, hell, you never know, right?” 

Paris turns slightly to see Rory, standing casually in the doorway of the room. Her heart speeds up in her fury because Rory is a traitor and _oh, is she going to get it._

Rory, who Paris had thought to be her friend, had set her up with Tristan. _Friend_ is quite quickly becoming Paris’s least favorite word. 

“You never know,” Paris says evenly, trying to keep a straight face. It’s turned into more of a grimace, but Tristan doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still just smiling pleasantly. “Okay, so we’re done here, right?” 

“Uh, sure.”

“Great. Excuse me.” 

Upon being dismissed, Paris whirls around and begins storming towards Rory. Rory, who’s looking all charmingly innocent. _As though she has no idea what she’s done._

“What?” Rory demands, now looking vaguely alarmed. 

“It was your idea?” Paris yells. Tristan, in the back of the room, can probably still hear her. Paris doesn’t particularly care. 

“Paris,” Rory tries to placate her. It doesn’t work. 

“So what, I get all your cast-offs now? I’m just that pathetic? ‘Gee, I don’t want them anymore, so maybe I can con the suckers into taking out Paris the _loser!’_ Throw the dog a bone!” Paris spits all of this violently into Rory’s face. Rory flinches away from her.

“Okay, let me--” she starts. Paris cuts her off. If she tries to let Rory explain herself, her anger might fade, and that’s not something Paris wants to risk when she’s currently _so_ angry. 

“I am _not_ your charity case!” she screeches, forcing herself not to look back at Tristan and the other boys. They’re probably laughing at her, since she’s such a freak. Rory doesn’t laugh. 

“No! It’s not like that, I swear. I just thought you guys would make a good couple. That’s all,” Rory pleads, but to no avail. 

“We did make a good couple. For _one night._ But obviously we’re more suited to being friends, or at least that was what was so humiliatingly conveyed to me just five seconds ago,” Paris seethes. It’s been more than five seconds. Usually she would try to be more exact in her description of the passage of time, like she’d instructed Tristan to do, but she’s so furious with Rory that it’s clouding her better judgement. 

“Paris, I’m sorry--”

“I hate you!” Paris announces, storming off. She pushes past Madeline and Louise, who have just arrived in the doorway, and out into the hall. After a moment, Madeline and Louise follow. 

Paris thinks she hears Rory arguing with Tristan back in the classroom. She doesn’t turn back to make sure. All the wants right now is to put as much distance between herself and Rory-- between herself and Tristan, between herself anyone who might judge her for the way she’s acted because Rory’s so perfect that there’s no _way_ all of this is on her, between herself and everybody-- as she stomps off. 

“What happened?” asks Madeline far too eagerly, having to jog to keep up with Paris.

“Yeah,” Louise adds. They have Paris surrounded, Madeline on her left side and Louise on her right.

“Nothing happened.” Paris grits her teeth settling into an even faster speed-walk. “Leave me the hell alone, you two, or I think I might just dramatically fall to the floor and die. Here and now. And you won’t even be able to say I never warned you.”

Madeline and Louise, quite used to the way Paris talks to people, are entirely unbothered. They do not leave her the hell alone.

“Seriously,” continues Paris. “There’ll be hacking. It won’t be pretty, and it won’t be funny, at least not for the portion of the population who don’t happen to be mortal enemies of mine. Which will be purely coincidental, because everybody whom I’ve ever talked to for more than five minutes is now a mortal enemy, save for you guys. Prove me wrong. I dare you.” 

“Aw, Paris, I’m sure it can’t be _that_ bad,” Louise persists. “Men are heartbreakers. That’s just how it is, but you’ve got to just shake it off and go date his brother.” 

“Tristan doesn’t have a brother,” Madeline cuts in, putting a finger in the air informatively. 

“Right. Best friend, then. Take the bro-code and stomp it into pathetic little shards of betrayal.”

“You know, that sounds great. I could bleach my hair and run away to California with him and end up working at a McDonalds and getting mani-pedis every two weeks. Eyebrow waxing, too. But as peachy as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” Paris snaps. “Now leave me alone.” 

“What does Rory have to do with this, anyways?” Madeline continues, still happily oblivious to Paris’s mutterings. “She kiss him? After he dropped you off last night, I mean.”

“I’m sure he would’ve if there were that much time in a day,” Paris says. Louise raises her eyebrows. 

“Ooh. Tell Louise more, please.” She positions herself in front of Paris, blocking her path. Paris shoves her to the side as she continues power-walking forward, no destination in mind.

“There’s nothing to tell, okay?” Paris gives Louise a death glare. Louise is seemingly oblivious to this. A part of the reason why her friendship with the two works is that they seem to have grown immune to her blunt disposition. It’s fascinating, really. “It didn’t work out. He pretty much gave me one half of those little friendship necklaces that say _best friends_ that the five year-old girls have. Emphasis on the fact that most of those are shaped like half of a broken heart, since mine’s been brutally shattered. Although they’re not anatomically accurate, so there’s that.”

“Ah. friend-zoned?” Madeline guesses, grimacing sympathetically. 

“Or something like that,” Paris grunts. She looks straight-forward, keeping her face devoid of any emotion save for general pissed off-ness. 

“Oh, sweetie,” says Louise. “Well, don’t worry about it, kay? This way you get a chance to move on to greater heights.”

“Guys with shinier hair,” Madeline chimes in.

“Yes,” Louise agrees emphatically. “Some hunky dude with shiny hair is in your future, Par-Par.”

Paris seriously doubts it. Nobody ever asks her out. The other day had been the first time. Nobody’s going to fall for her personality, and renovating her (rather nonexistent) fashion sense isn’t going to get her anywhere when they have to walk around all day in uniforms. Basically, she’s screwed. 

“Not happening, I’m basically screwed,” Paris says out loud. “In general, boys like to keep at least a five-foot radius of space between themselves and me. Sometimes four feet. If I’m lucky. In general, the odds of one blindly stumbling or braving the task of venturing anywhere near the three-foot range ever again unless faced with our having to do one of Ms. Caldicott’s infamous group projects together are pretty damn slim.” 

“I could always set you up with somebody,” Madeline offers. “My boyfriend has a cousin who has a friend.” 

“I’d rather dunk my head in a tub of hot wax. Thanks, though,” Paris declines. 

“Well, if not my boyfriend’s cousin’s friend, you could always go for Louise’s stepfather’s brother’s son,” Madeline suggests. 

“Oh, he’s a good one,” Louise confirms, nodding approvingly. “So. Should I get you his number?” 

Paris whirls around suddenly. Both Madeline and Louise are startled, and Louise trips right into her. “If you think I want to go out with your _cousin_ then you’re fucking delusional,” she announces disgustedly. “Do us all a favor and get that checked out.” 

“Girl. You can’t just expect us to stop like that with, like, no warning,” Madeline protests. “It’s a safety hazard.”

“You two are such airheads that everything is a safety hazard,” Paris retorts. “I feel like I need to carry one of those _CAUTION! Wet floors_ signs everywhere I go or you’d be constantly tripping over your own feet, and you probably wouldn’t be able to get back up. Like one of those roly polys that get stuck on their own backs.”

“Ouch,” says Louise, but Paris can tell she isn’t really offended from the amused way she’s smirking. Paris wonders why she bothers to waste some of her best material on them when it doesn’t go anywhere. 

“So, what exactly happened with Tristan?” Louise attempts to get the conversation back on track. 

“Oh! Right,” says Madeline, snapping her fingers. They both look at her, eagerly awaiting the story. 

“Nothing happened,” Paris insists. “Shut your traps.” 

“Doubt it,” Louise hums distractedly, busying herself with looking at a presumably cute boy who walks past. 

“Him,” says Madeline, pointing decisively at the innocent passerby. “We can set you up with him.”

“Are you kidding?” Louise demands, shooting Madeline a scandalized look. “He’s mine.” 

“You guys can share.” 

This comment is what finally makes Paris crack; she’s simply unable to carry out a conversation this stupid. And maybe it’s distracted her from her anger for a little while, but now her anger and humiliation is back in full swing. 

“Wait a minute, I thought I told you two to leave me alone!” Paris barks. She actually waves a fist at them. Like some cranky old man. 

“Okay, sheez,” mutters Louise, and for once the two of them actually look hurt as they walk off, braving one last sideways glance at Paris. As soon as they do, she regrets it. But Paris can hardly apologize, call for them to come back and ask for their forgiveness. It’s just not something she does.

Paris may not see eye-to-eye with Madeline and Louise, but they’re really her only friends (after today, Tristan is her friend, too, though that’s a bit of a sore spot) and she hates that she’s offended them. 

The whole thing is sort of the last straw, and Paris finds herself ducking into the nearest restroom and swiping at the corners of her eyes. A look in the mirror confirms what she already suspects, which is that she’s completely red. 

Why can’t Tristan like her?

Why does she have to be so transparent to Rory? 

And why can’t she just be nice to anybody? Her only friends, nonetheless.

Paris spends the last ten minutes before class crying in the bathroom, just like any angsty highschool girl worth her salt would. Maybe she’s not so bad at the whole stereotypical teenage girl thing after all; she’s got the whole being miserable part down pat. 

***

There seems to be something wrong with Rory.

Of course there’s something wrong with Rory; she’s a manipulative bitch, for one, but what Paris means to say is that she seems sad. 

“What do we want to bet it’s boy trouble?” Louise says when Paris points it out one day.

They’re at Madeline’s house, in her room. The initial intent had been to study, but at this point Paris is studying and Madeline and Louise are talking about boys and painting their nails. Paris hadn’t expected any less.

“Oh, of course it’s not a boy,” Paris scoffs dismissively. “Rory’s far too smart to let _boys_ bother her. Not _every_ woman allows herself to be governed by dumbass males, you know.” 

Then again, she’d thought the same of herself until recently-- of course, she’d wound up more upset by learning Rory’s part in the matter than having been rejected by Tristan. 

Of course, having been-- as Madeline had so eloquently put it the other day-- _friend-zoned_ does sting. So maybe not even the smartest of the straight, female population are immune to boy problems. 

“Really?” says Louise dubiously. She’s currently working on sticking little heart-shaped bling onto her recently painted purple nails with a toothpick. “I know the symptoms of heartbreak. Trust me; it’s a boy.” 

Something about this idea makes Paris angry. Of course, everything makes her angry, especially when Rory is involved, but the idea of Rory being phased by petty relationship problems just ruffles her feathers in a way that they haven’t been ruffled before. _Rory’s just too good for that_. 

(Of course, Rory is horrible. But she’s still too good for that.)

“Louise knows her stuff,” says Madeline, flicking an emery board knowingly in her friend’s direction. “If Louise says it’s a boy, then it’s a boy.” 

Paris considers this. “You know, you two may be total imbeciles, but you _do_ know things when it comes to relationships. I’d willingly choose you for a group project over my own dead body, but I’d take your word as gospel on February fourteenth.” 

Madeline smiles appreciatively. “Aww, thanks!” 

Paris has been making an effort to be kinder to the two of them after having snapped at them the other day-- of course, she’s not being _nice_ by any means, because she’s not nice to anyone, but she’s been better. “Yeah, don’t get used to it,” she mutters.

“Boys’re the only area of academics I care about anyways,” says Louise dismissively.

“Contrary to popular belief, boys aren’t actually an area of academics,” Paris informs her. Louise just shrugs indifferently. “Hey, since we’ve already established that you two know your shit, could I ask something?” she requests after some thought. 

“Shoot,” says Madeline. 

“What’s the appeal of dating and dumping all these boys? Wouldn’t you rather have a steady boyfriend or something? You know, not that I’m an expert on either area, it just seems more logical...”

Both girls look at her blankly. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t compute,” says Louise. “You think that _one_ boy is better than, say, five?” 

“Yeah,” confirms Paris, because she does. She really, really does. “Five times the boys is five times the…” She trails off. “Headache. Because let’s just face it, social interaction is a nightmare on its own. Adding four more boys than is strictly necessary to the equation sounds like a nightmare. Why would you ever willingly subject yourself to that?” 

“Because five times the boys also happens to be five times the hot,” Madeline explains perkily. 

“Describe hot,” says Paris. Again, Madeline and Louise are both looking at her like she’s being weird, somehow. “No, seriously. What’s the appeal of, say, Brad? You, due to some inexcusable lapse in judgement, like Brad. Right, Madeline?”

Madeline nods her confirmation, her hair bobbing up and down. “Well, he’s cute,” she tells Paris.

“Define cute. I wanna hear the Oxford version, too, not just the Urban Dictionary.”

Madeline frowns, looking genuinely affronted by the request. “I don’t know. He just...is.” 

“Too nerdy for me,” dismisses Louise with a shrug. “You can have him.”

“Good. I intend to.” 

Paris, meanwhile, still doesn’t have an answer to her question. “Let’s say I, oh, surgically removed one of Brad’s facial features to make him less, as you put it, _cute_.” This is officially one of the strangest conversations she’s ever willingly taken part in, let alone initiated. “Which one would do so most effectively?”

Madeline looks utterly scandalized. “Why would you maime his perfect face?”

“Theoretically. Don’t panic, I’m not getting the scalpels out just yet,” Paris assures her. 

Considering this, Madeline frowns. “I don’t know,” she says eventually. “He’s just cute, Paris. There doesn’t have to be a reason.” 

“Doesn’t there?” Paris demands, beginning to get frustrated. “I mean, there’s gotta be a method to the madness. You don’t just _like_ people with no rhyme or reason. Of course, I might not be a reliable source, given that I don’t actually like that many people...hmm. Anyways. There’s got to be an explanation.”

“No,” Louise says. “I mean, I’m sure boys have attractive features and stuff like that, but it’s hard to pinpoint. When I look at a boy, I don’t think _that’s one hot nose,_ I just think that I like the boy.” 

“I sometimes pinpoint noses as being particularly hot,” Madeline points out, “but Louise is right. A hot nose doesn’t make for a hot guy. It’s more like a hot guy makes for a hot nose.”

“Okay, you guys have officially lost me,” says Paris, throwing her arms out in exasperation. “I guess I’ll just stay alone forever. Become a crazy cat lady. Shout at some kids and just generally be dead inside all the time. I’ve got it in me, you know I do.” 

“But you’re always talking about being an independent woman,” Louise protests. 

Paris opens her mouth. Then she closes it again. She can’t really argue with this. “Whatever,” she ends up huffing instead, crossing her arms over her chest. “All I’m saying is that we weren’t all born to be trophy wives.” 

“It _is_ interesting,” Madeline muses. “The theory of hotness. I wonder if I can major in that.”

“No.” Paris gives her a stern look. “I already _told_ you that boys aren’t an area of academics. Do you even listen?” 

Madeline looks a little bit crestfallen. 

“Let’s look at this from a more objective standpoint,” Louise suggests. “Who’s somebody at our school that’s generally considered to be hot but whom we don’t personally find attractive? It may be easier to think about that way.”

“A girl, maybe,” adds Madeline.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louise agrees. “Me?”

“I venture to say that you’re biased,” Paris deadpans.

“True, true,” says Louise. “How about Rory?” 

“No,” says Paris sharply, her voice raising an octave or two in alarm. She physically recoils in horror at the mere idea. Then, more firmly, “no.” 

“Why not?” Madeline wants to know. She and Louise look puzzled as they gaze up at Paris.

“Because I hate her.” Paris tries to sound definitive. “She’s going to be the death of me, but it’ll be an accident and she’ll apologize to me in Heaven and bring me fresh baked goods because, despite her having committed manslaughter, nobody will quite have the heart to send her to Hell. And I’ll punch her in the face. But no matter how frustratingly polite she is about it, she’s still gonna be the death of me, so no. There’s just no way we can-- no. I hate her.”

“You mentioned,” Louise jokes, the corner of her lips quirking up into a smile. “But really. Why not?” 

Paris opens her mouth to explain, only to find that she can’t. All she knows is that she really, _really_ does not want to talk about Rory in this particular context (or in any context, for that matter). 

Maybe she’s just jealous of the fact that Tristan likes Rory and not her. That Tristan thinks Rory is prettier than her. Nicer, too; Paris isn’t even going to argue with this last part. It’s the logical conclusion one would come to. But that’s not all. There’s also the fact that Rory, in all of her wide-eyed, innocent, generally aesthetically-pleasing glory, always seems to be almost mocking Paris. 

She’s not just prettier than Paris. She’s aggressively prettier than Paris. Not that she’s _that_ much prettier, just that she’s so in-your-face about it. She doesn’t do it on purpose, which makes it somehow even more irritating. She’s just pretty in a way that’s impossible to ignore. It’s infuriating, and Paris wants nothing more than to be able to ignore it. 

“We just can’t,” says Paris. She’s sort of curling into herself, folding her hands over her chest and her knees beneath her in Madeline’s swivel chair. It’s all making her chest feel strangely tight. “Get over it.” 

“Whatever you say, girl,” replies Madeline with an indifferent shrug. “Speaking of Rory. Totally boy problems, right?”

“Totally boy problems,” Louise agrees. “I wonder if it’s Farmer Boy.” 

“Of course it’s Farmer Boy,” Madeline tells her. She sounds dead serious about this. “Does Rory really seem like the kind of chick to have two boys at once?” 

“Hey, you don’t know her life,” Louise points out, then sighing. “Gosh. If the boys were drawn to me like they are her, I know I would.” 

“Well, the innocence is a part of the charm,” Madeline explains knowledgeably. “If she had two men at once, then suddenly she’d have none.”

“What a dilemma,” says Louise with a seemingly pained grimace. 

“Could we please get back to homework?” Paris begs. She really, really hates this conversation. “I think my brain is rotting, and I need my brain if I’m going to get into Harvard.” 

“You can,” says Madeline. “You know, it’s strange that you took a break in the first place. To ask us about boys, no less. So not Paris-ish. Huh.” 

Paris turns back to her notebook, intent on ignoring the pair for the rest of the night. It’s one of the rare occasions on which she wishes she listened to music. She’s always thought of music as being a waste of time, but if it could block out these two dorks it might be worth it. Paris just isn’t sure she could concentrate listening to music.

Plus, Rory listens to music. She’s always in the cafeteria with a book and her Walkman. Never taking an interest in sitting with anyone, just all by herself. She’s basically Belle. Or Elizabeth Bennet. Or another bookish, headstrong brunette who’s a bit too dreamy to be anything other than a fictional character. Paris _definitely_ wouldn’t want it to seem like she was copying her. 

***

“Hey, Rory,” Tristan calls in a flirtatious tone across the hall. Paris instantly forgets the novel she’d been about to pull from her locker, instead turning to shoot Tristan a death glare. She can feel Rory’s presence besides her-- the fact that their lockers are more or less right next to one another has never ceased to irritate Paris-- so she turns to glare at Rory, too. 

“Hello, Tristan,” sighs Rory in a tone which implies that this is an interaction she would rather not be having. _Ugh! Of_ course _she thinks she’s too good for him,_ Paris thinks, instantly forgetting the hatred for Tristan she’d acquired just the other day (and having had the exact thought that Rory was too good for him).

“Could I talk to you for a moment?” Tristan asks. He’d done the same before asking out Paris, so he’s probably going to ask Rory out. This fact does nothing if not amplify Paris’s never-ending frustration towards both. 

“Go for it,” says Rory crisply. She very clearly has no intention to move towards him.

“I was actually sort of hoping we could talk in private,” Tristan amends. Paris stiffens.

“Nothing you have to say to me that you can’t say here, right?” Rory says.

“Oh, come on, Mary,” Tristan pleads. Paris and Rory both scowl at once at the nickname. Because, while it’s definitely true that Paris hates Rory, she has this weird thing where nobody gets to be mean to Rory but her.

“Go away, Tristan,” says Rory. 

“Fine,” says Tristan simply. He shrugs. “I’ll be back,” he tells her, offering a winning smile before retreating into the opposite direction. Paris whirls around to confront Rory.

“Ugh! Why are you so mean to him? It’s like you think you’re too good for him or something,” she demands. 

Rory sighs. “Paris, I’m exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, I love arguing with you and all that, but now’s not the time.” 

“I mean,” Paris continues, ignoring Rory’s pleas, “I get that you have a boyfriend or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you get to be rude to Tristan. You’re so rude to him. He just likes you! There’s nothing wrong with that, huh?” She spits the last part directly in Rory’s face. She doesn’t even flinch away. 

“He calls me Mary, Paris,” says Rory. “I’ve asked him not to do that. Repeatedly. Plus,” she adds, looking away dejectedly, “I don’t particularly have a boyfriend anymore.”

 _Huh. So Madeline and Louise_ were _right._

“What? You butt heads with Tall, Floppy-Haired and Clueless?” Now Paris can tell that she’s getting to her, so she continues. “What a shame. How charming those small town boys can be, right? I’m sure his chickens’ll miss you.” 

“Dean. Doesn’t have _chickens,”_ Rory seethes. She gives Paris her best impression of a glare, but Rory’s face is just one of those faces that can’t manage such a thing, and it winds up looking a little bit pathetic. Still, Paris knows there’s genuine rage behind that face. She doesn’t take Rory lightly. 

“Well, his cows, then,” Paris corrects herself. “I could see him milking a cow. Couldn’t you, Rory?” 

“He doesn’t have those, either,” Rory insists. “Look, Paris, why can’t you just…” She trails off, searching for a way to put it. “...piss off?” 

“I would,” says Paris, “but I don’t especially feel like doing that.” 

Rory gives a loud, exasperated groan, grabbing her books from her locker and walking off briskly. Paris follows.

“But if you’re free, why didn’t you just say yes to Tristan?” she persists. 

“I thought you liked Tristan! Why do you want _me_ to date him?”

Paris stops at this; she genuinely can’t think of an answer.

“I don’t,” she snaps eventually, because it’s true enough. “I just hate that you treat him like he’s so _below_ you somehow. It’s like you’re trying to play hard-to-get, but it’s actually just pathetic. I think you like the attention.”

“Sounds familiar?” Rory snarls, turning to face Paris again. Her face is entirely red. The insult stings, but Paris figures she’d had it coming.

Paris raises her eyebrows. “We’re feeling angry today, aren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself,” Rory grunts. She turns back around. “Look, I’m sorry I decided talking to you would be a good idea today. Just-- go away. Please? I’m having a bad day.”

“Well, yes, your having a bad day was sort of the point,” Paris explains with a smirk. “But if you really can’t handle me, well, there’s nothing I can do about _that_.” 

Rory opens her mouth to say something, but Paris is off before she can. She’s fairly satisfied, having gotten the last laugh and all that. 

Then, Rory grabs her shoulder. “Paris?” It doesn’t sound mean, or even exasperated. She’s reverted back to just being kind. Her default.

“Yes?” says Paris cautiously, looking over her shoulder at Rory. “Whatever you’re going to say, make it quick. I’ve got to be in class soon, and so do you.”

“You’re too good for Tristan,” says Rory eventually, giving Paris a start. This is _not_ what she’d been expecting Rory to say, not by a longshot. 

“What?”

“You heard me, you’re too good for him,” Rory repeats. Her face is blank. “You’re too smart for him. You’re too...well, everything for him. You have actual, honest-to-God brain cells. I know you think you need his approval or something like that, but you don’t. Don’t fall for it, because it’s just the result of living in a patriarchal society where women aren’t allowed to think for themselves. _Don’t_ fall for it.” 

She walks away, leaving Paris with her mouth wide open as she tries and fails to formulate an appropriate response. For once, words fail her, and she’s just left sort of standing there, watching Rory walk away. 

“I-- I know that!” she finally stammers in response, but Rory is already out of earshot. “You think I don’t know that?” 

When Rory finally disappears around the corner, Paris scowls to herself, grabbing her books and slamming her locker shut just for the hell of it. 

Rory doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

Paris doesn't need _male approval_ or whatever it is that Rory had been trying to tell her. Rory doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Rory is, after all, the one who has been rendered depressed for the last half-week or so over her breakup with-- oh, what was it again?-- a _boy_. She has no right to preach this shit. 

Still, now that the idea is in Paris’s head, she can’t quite abandon it. It’s just how ideas work: once it’s planted in your mind, a tiny seed, you can’t quite get rid of it. It can grow larger, it can wilt or even die, but it can never quite disappear entirely. Like how, earlier in the school year, Paris had gotten the idea that Rory isn’t quite as bad as she’d originally thought. Like how now, she has the idea that maybe her going out with Tristan isn’t quite as important as she’d once thought it to be.

And that, maybe, when Paris had just been a little kid, society had given her the impression that she needed a man’s approval-- anybody’s approval, for that matter-- to be a valid member of society.

But that’s all bullshit, right? Rory’s playing with her head. 

Paris doesn’t give it a second thought for the rest of the day.

(Or, more accurately, she doesn’t acknowledge any second thoughts on the subject that creep into her head throughout the rest of the day.)

“I mean, it’s absolutely ridiculous,” mutters Paris aloud to herself later as she works on her homework. She’s hunched over her desk like a gremlin of sorts as she prints out letters with handwriting so pristine it may as well have been coming out of an actual printer. “I don’t have to listen to a thing she says.” 

Paris continues writing. She’s almost done with her paper, but, in typical Paris fashion, she will have to revise at least four times and then edit (and then edit some more). 

“Oh, no, this sucks,” Paris realizes as she reads over the sheet. “It’s so bad I can’t actually believe I wrote it. I’m not in fifth grade.” She crumples the paper into a ball before tossing it into the little trash can under her desk. “And I’m talking to myself. Oh, boy, this has _got_ to be a new low.” 

She pulls a second piece of paper from her binder, neatly printing her heading at the top, taking a deep breath. She figures she’d probably overreacted in throwing out the first, so she retrieves it from the trash and uncrumples it. Surely there are some lines she can still use.

“I don’t think Rory knows what she’s talking about,” Paris continues her rant, officially no longer paying attention to what she puts down on the page. She could write an essay upside down in her sleep (this doesn’t mean she’s not a stickler for quality, of course). “It’s so easy for her to say this stuff. I mean, she’s got a boyfriend. Or, she _did_ have a boyfriend. Not anymore. He ran. Or she ran, I don’t actually know the whole story. Either way, he’s missing out.” 

Paris realizes she’s been pressing her pencil down to the paper with more force than is strictly necessary as the lead at the end snaps off and rolls around the page, eventually landing on the ground.

“Damn it,” she huffs, reaching into her pencil case to grab a pencil sharpener. She inserts the pencil into the sharpener, only to find the little hole clogged with a stray shard of pencil lead. “Damn it!” 

She throws the sharpener at the wall. “You useless piece of shit!” 

Paris isn’t typically a believer in the mechanical pencil, but with her flimsy, plastic pencil sharpener shattered on the floor she must resort to it. She has to admit, they’re rather useful when regular pencils can’t hold up to her heavy hand. 

“I don’t know why I’m defending Rory,” Paris muses. “She’s horrible. Horrible. If Dean-- or whatever his name was, it’s not like I care enough to have put any effort into remembering-- dumped her, it was probably for good reason. Not that he’s going to find anyone better.” 

She snaps the end off of the little stick of pencil lead at the end of the mechanical pencil. Fortunately, this is amended quickly due to the genius innovation that is mechanical pencil lead. 

“I wonder if he betrayed her, too,” Paris wonders aloud. “Because that’s what she is. A traitor. Maybe Madeline and Louise were wrong and she _is_ the kind of chick to have two men at once. What if the innocence is just an act?”

Paris tries to imagine it, Rory manipulating to and lying to that Dean guy. The more she tries the harder it is to imagine. 

“Or maybe she dumped him. A heartbreaker. Huh, never would have pinned her for one. Then again, there’s that whole deal with Tristan.” 

Paris looks down at her paper to find that she’s just written _euthenasia_ instead of _anesthesia_ on her paper. _It would be a crime to subject surgery patients and likewise to procedures without the much-needed assistance of euthenasia._

“I’m losing my mind,” Paris realizes. She grabs her eraser from her pencil bag and begins rubbing out _euthenasia_ , but she’s, once more, applied too much pressure to the pencil and the word is still there. She rubs harder and harder with the pencil until the paper rips under it.

“Soon _I’m_ gonna require the much-needed assistance of euthenasia,” Paris groans, burying her face in her hands. She grabs a new paper. 

“I still think she likes him,” Paris rants. “I mean, she has to. Everybody likes Tristan. It’s a whole thing. If you were to poll the girls in our school at least seventy-five percent of them would report a current or past interest in him. Statistically, Rory’s _got_ to like him. Then again, that’s based on statistics I made up just now....huh. Well, it’s an educated guess, and I like to think that I’m very well educated so far.”

She takes yet another stab at her essay-- pretty literally, given the way she yields a pencil. It’s not due for a week, but Paris likes to get things done early. Excessively early, if you were to ask Madeline or Louise. Paris doesn’t think that _excessively early_ is even possible unless you’re referring to childbirth. Paris is decidedly not referring to childbirth. 

“I don’t want to have kids,” she mumbles. “What a headache. I bet I was one headache of a kid. Am, because I’m still sixteen. But I’m pretty low-maintenance at this point. I mean, sixteen year-olds can drive and avoid doing anything life-threateningly stupid for the most part, so that sounds about right.” 

Paris thinks that this version of the essay will make it to the revision process. She hopes so, anyways. 

“You know, maybe I don’t even have to do this whole thing tonight,” she decides. “I can do a rough draft tonight and revise tomorrow night. Then I’ll edit it the night after that and it’ll still be relatively early.”

But, of course, Paris is Paris, and when you’re Paris _relatively early_ isn’t going to cut it. Why be early if you can’t be a whole week early?

“Ugh, but that would be slacking off,” Paris realizes. “I don’t slack off. I’ve gotta get this finished tonight or I’m never going to Harvard and I’m going to be a total failure.”

She’s being hyperbolic (sort of). 

“I wonder if Rory’s finishing the essay tonight,” she says. “Probably. I doubt she has anything better to do, now that she’s not going out with that ruffian anymore,” Paris scoffs. “Oh, no. Ruffian. I sound like an old woman. I’m losing my marbles. If I ever had marbles in the first place, which is rather improbable. What’s happening to me?”

Paris sighs, throwing down her pencil and going into the living room. She grabs the phone from the table and dials Rory’s number (which she only has memorized because she has an elephant’s memory, thank you very much, and certainly not because she’d make a conscious effort to remember it).

“Lorelai Gilmore speaking,” says the woman who picks up perkily. “Who is this?”

“Paris,” says Paris. “Can I speak with Rory?”

“Sure,” Lorelai agrees. She sounds surprised. Paris hears her shout, “Honey! Paris is calling!” 

There’s about a minute where Paris doesn’t hear anything other than white noise at the other end of the phone. She considers hanging up. Then:

“Hey, Paris,” says Rory tentatively. “What did you want?”

“Did you finish your essay already?” Paris demands.

“Err, no,” Rory replies. “Why?”

“Are you going to finish it tonight?” Paris presses.

“I wasn’t…” says Rory, then trailing off. “Wait. What’s that to you?”

“Just answer the question,” Paris seethes. “Are you finishing the essay tonight or not?”

“You know what, I don’t feel inclined to tell you,” announces Rory decisively. 

“Why not? Are you not gonna finish it?” 

“I don’t know, Paris. I might. I might finish all my homework while I’m at it. Maybe send in an early application to Harvard for kicks and giggles.” Paris’s brow furrows. “Or I may just take the night off and have movie night with my mom. Either way I don’t see why you would care. Frankly, it’s a bit weird.” 

“You’re a bit weird,” Paris retorts.

“Touché,” says Rory. 

“That’s not a good thing,” Paris clarifies after a moment.

“It is if I want it to be,” says Rory. “I don’t know if your goal here is to beat me down and tear out my originality like one of those reformatory schools in those movies, but I think I’ll pass. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Paris scoffs.

“What?” Rory wants to know.

“Oh, just that we’re basically going to one of those schools already,” Paris snarks. 

“And so your calling me weird is a compliment to my resilience and strength of character in hard situations. Thanks, Par.” 

Paris has to actively bite back a yell of frustration at this.

“Calling you was a stupid idea,” she declares. 

“Yeah, I agree,” says Rory. “Why’d ya do it?” 

“I wanted to ask if you’re going to finish the paper tonight,” says Paris. “Which I did. And you refused to answer, which, thanks a lot.”

“I still don’t get why you care.”

“I don’t,” Paris lies. 

“Whatever you say.” 

“No, I really don’t!” Paris insists.

“So you just called me on a whim.”

“Yes,” Paris confirms because, to some extent, she has. 

“Okay. Then I’ll hang up.” 

There’s a rather awkward moment of silence between them before Paris speaks up.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she blurts out.

“Oh? About what?”

“You told me earlier that you thought that I thought I needed Tristan’s approval, and you were wrong. I don’t know why you were trying to therapize me in the first place. I don’t need therapization, damn it. So maybe I just wanted to go on a date with Tristan because I like him or something. If that’s a concept you have enough of a brain to successfully grasp.” Rory says nothing. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” says Rory. “I just think it’s strange that you would like him.”

“Why?” Paris demands, gripping the phone with an unfounded vigor as she waits for her answer. “Why’s that so hard to believe?” 

“It’s like I said. You’re too good for him,” Rory explains after a moment’s consideration. “I don’t get why you would date somebody so...well, you’re out of his league.”

It takes a second or two for Paris to fully process the words coming out of Rory’s mouth. Usually she would have said something along the lines of _you’re damn right I am_ or _hey, don’t pretend like you’re better than him._ She’s so taken aback by the statement that she doesn’t. “Oh, fuck off,” she scoffs instead. 

“No, I’m being entirely serious,” Rory maintains. “So maybe you’re not exactly hot stuff in the Chilton dating pool. That doesn’t matter because you’re going somewhere in your life. He’s not. So if I were you, I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

“You’re not me and you still don’t give him the time of day,” Paris points out. 

“True,” Rory allows. “I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t worry about Tristan, okay? You don’t need him. Nobody in their right mind does, if I’m being entirely honest here. I know I don’t.” 

Paris should relent at this point. She doesn’t. “You don’t know his life,” she argues in a last-ditch attempt to prove Rory wrong. 

“I don’t,” Rory agrees. “But I _do_ know that he’s a bit of a dunce. And that he doesn’t respect me.”

“It’s so weird,” Paris realizes, having just been struck by a revelation. “He likes you more than me. But he respects me and goes around harassing you like it’s his day job. How does _that_ make sense?”

“It doesn’t, right?” Rory exclaims. “Boys are idiots.” 

“Yeah,” Paris caves. She’s glad Rory can’t see that she’s grinning a little. “Well, bye.” 

“See you tomorrow,” says Rory.

Paris doesn’t hang up at first. Neither does Rory. “Aren’t you going to hang up?” she huffs in frustration once it has gone on long enough to be uncomfortable.

“ _You_ hang up,” Rory objects. The moment they’d shared is over.

“No, you hang up!” Paris shouts into the phone. “I’m not going to stand here forever. Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ have a life.” Rory laughs. 

“If you say so,” she says. 

Then she hangs up and, for some unfathomable reason, it makes Paris just a little bit sad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's this week's chapter. Enjoy!

Every so often, a rare occasion will occur on which Paris is given an opportunity to flaunt her academic prowess over Rory. This is one of such occasions: Rory sits, staring glumly at the window, not listening to Mr. Medina in the slightest. 

Mr. Medina is talking about _The Art Of Fiction_ , too. Rory loves that book (presumably; she loves books in general is what Paris means to say, because it’s not like she’s been monitoring Rory’s specific choice in books or anything like that). 

It _does_ , in fact, cross Paris’s mind that picking on Rory right now would be wrong. Insensitive, even. The reason behind her not paying attention is clearly upset over what had happened with Dean.

It occurs to Paris that the correct thing to do in this particular situation may just be to take the high road and keep her mouth shut.

 _Then, again, the high road is for suckers,_ thinks Paris. Let Rory be the bigger person. See if she cares.

Paris shoots a look at Madeline and Louise, both of whom are sitting by her. She captures their attention easily, given that the two of them are also neglecting to mind what Mr. Medina has to say. Paris cocks her head at Rory, smirking.

By some miracle, this is all she needs to do in order to get her point across. This is another thing that makes her friendship with the two of them work, the fact that the three of them can somehow communicate effortlessly with one another through simple body language, no elaboration ever necessary. Both Madeline and Louise direct their attention towards Rory. 

“...Henry James, man of the moment,” says Mr. Medina. “Pick your book. Read it carefully. A full report on my desk one week from today. Any questions? Ms. Gilmore, any questions?”

To Paris’s unadulterated delight, not even Mr. Medina directly addressing Rory does anything to peak her interest. His efforts to break through whatever dreary haze she’s currently experiencing are all in vain. 

If Paris happens to drop her books, take her hand and budge her massive pile of thick textbooks a bit too far so they tumble onto the floor at this very moment, it’s hardly her fault. _Accidents happen,_ she thinks all too snottily. 

“Oops,” Paris says snarkily when Rory, startled by the sudden slamming noise, jerks awake from whatever she’s been thinking about, a distinct deer-in-headlights look adorning that face of hers. She’s probably been reminiscing on all the time she’d spent frolicking through pumpkin patches with that Dean kid. _Ugh._

The mental image is nothing short of awful: the Dean and Rory in Paris’s head are holding hands, an unrealistically aesthetically pleasing sunset behind them. Rory’s holding a pumpkin spice latte in the hand not occupied by Dean’s. It’s sickening. 

“Ms. Gilmore?” says Mr. Medina again. This time Rory has the good grace to notice, her eyes flicking up and back going straight in newfound alertness. 

“Yes?” 

“Did you hear the assignment?”

Rory ducks her head down, looking remarkably like an obedient puppy caught in the sock drawer. “Um, no. I’m sorry.” 

“Henry James. Pick a novel. A report on my desk in one week. You got it?” instructs Mr. Medina. Of course, since Rory is a teacher’s pet (and his ex-girlfriend’s daughter, though this is hardly worth dwelling on) he doesn’t seem all that frustrated with her. Paris finds this highly annoying. 

“Yes, I got it,” says Rory. 

The bell signaling the end of class rings now, and Mr. Medina bids them a goodbye. As they’re walking out, Paris advances towards Rory to partake in her favorite pastime, which just so happens to be tormenting her. 

Paris waits until she’s close enough to Rory that the other girl can feel her breath on her shoulder before talking (this maximizes the intimidation factor, you see). 

“You didn’t take one note. You resorting to the osmosis theory of learning?”

Rory looks quite frankly miserable as she gives her response, not bothering to look Paris in the face. Paris inches even closer to command her attention. Rory begins walking towards the door of the classroom. Paris follows. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t, I’m just making an observation,” Paris explains knowledgeably. This has become a bit of a format for their conversations, the whole _why do you care?_ followed by an emphatic _oh, I don’t_ thing. 

“Great,” Rory deadpans. “We’ll build a dome over you and jam a telescope in your head.”

Paris opens her mouth to make yet another snide comment when Mr. Medina calls to talk to Rory after class, a development by which Paris is filled with all the joy of a kid on Christmas morning (not that she would know, being Jewish and all). Of course, she’s a bit disappointed that her efforts to tear into Rory will have to be cut short. Eventually she decides it to be a reasonable sacrifice. 

“I’ll get working on that dome,” Paris says once Madeline and Louise have both given Rory their goodbyes. “You’re too nice to her,” she criticizes, turning to the pair with her arms crossed over her chest in a rather accusatory manner. “Before we know it you’ll be weaving friendship bracelets together or some shit. I beg of you: spare yourselves.” 

“Eh,” says Madeline with a lackluster shrug, seemingly unbothered. 

“You seem pretty chummy with her yourself for being her supposed arch nemesis,” Louise points out, cocking a heavily makeuped eyebrow higher onto her forehead than should be possible, a skill which Paris has always envied.

“I am _not_ chummy with her,” Paris insists. Her face feels inexplicably warm for a moment.

“Really,” says Louise, not looking neither impressed nor convinced by the declaration.

“Really,” maintains Paris. “It’s just-- well, you know what they say. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Coax them into the trap and then, when they least expect it, squeeze down like a python.” She makes a gesture of squeezing her hands firmly together until they start to hurt a little. “Channel your inner python.” 

“I wish I had an inner python,” says Louise wistfully. “Sounds sexy.” 

Paris makes a point of ignoring this, instead moving on to Madeline. 

“Sure,” allows Madeline. “I’m sure that’s why half the time when we’re having a conversation, you‘re just glaring at Rory.” 

Paris’s mouth feels too dry for proper speaking for a perilous second before she chokes out, “I-- yes. Exactly.” Her arms remain firmly crossed. “I’m the python. You understood the simile, I should hope. Because, you know, we learned about figurative language in middle school and I mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say that you’re not _that_ much of a dunce.” 

“Hey, I’m not mad,” offers Madeline. “It’s funny, if anything.” The amused look on her face supports this statement. Paris turns to Louise to find a matching expression on hers. 

“I’m not funny!” Paris exclaims, looming at the two of them as they leave the classroom. Louise has the audacity to chuckle at this. “Really. I’m not. I’m terrifying. Anybody who dares laugh at me will mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night with a message spelled in blood over their headboards saying _who’s laughing now, sucker?--_ or something like that, anyways. I haven’t worked out the fine details.” 

“You keep telling yourself that,” says Louise, bidding her a consoling pat to the shoulder. Paris cringes away.

“You know what? I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” Paris decides, crossing her arms decisively.

“Yeah, whatever,” says Madeline dismissively. Thankfully, she has apparently decided not to dwell on the matter. She shifts her attention to Louise. “So, did you see that new episode of _How I Met Your Mother_?”

“No, not yet,” says Louise, a fact for which she looks eternally ashamed. Paris cannot for the life of her fathom why these two care as much as they do about the stupid show. If Paris has learned one thing from her mother it’s that TV rots your brain. 

“Oh, it’s crazy,” Madeline tells her. She opens her mouth to jump into a fully-fledged summary of said episode when Louise, mercifully, interrupts her.

“Girl, no spoilers!” she exclaims, her look of shame having transformed into one of scandalization. 

“Sorry,” says Madeline, putting her hands up into the air in a gesture of defeat. 

“Thank you,” says Paris, giving Louise an approving nod with mock solemnity. “You just saved us both from a very long, very tedious episode of _How I Met Your Mother According To Madeline,_ a feat for which many in the coming years will thank you. You will receive much thanks and a great many handshakes from various popes. Lives have been saved today, Louise Grant, all at your hand.”

“Err, thanks?” Louise looks a little bit confused by this, but she also looks vaguely amused, so Paris considers the joke to have landed. She feels strangely proud. 

“Rude,” chastises Madeline, all the while not looking all that upset by the comment. 

***

“I wonder what Mr. Medina wanted with Rory,” Louise comments later that day, after they’ve gotten out of their third period class. 

“Maybe it had something to do with--” Madeline gives a conspiratorial wink, jabbing Paris in the side with her elbow. “-- y’know.” 

Paris avoids both girls’ gazes as she says crisply, “no, I don’t.”

In truth, Paris knows very well that they’re talking about. Clearly, they are referring to a particular scandal Paris herself had been responsible for publicizing in which Rory’s mother had been caught making out with Mr. Medina in a locked classroom on an ill-fated Parents Day. 

In truth, this is something Paris wouldn’t have done-- or, at least not with such vigor and enthusiasm-- if it weren’t for the fact that, at that time, her own parents’ divorce had been all over the local papers. With everybody and their mother-- probably literally, at least within the realms of Hartford-- gossiping about the split, who could blame Paris for wanting to turn the attention to somebody else? And then the opportunity had just gone and presented itself. There could have been a golden gift bow on that classroom door and it wouldn’t have felt all that out of place. 

Then Rory had confronted her about it, looking so wounded that Paris had been pushed to an emotion she hardly ever experiences: guilt. And of _course_ Gilmore had then had to go and add salt to the wound with the whole _you can always talk to me, you know_ spiel. 

Damn that Rory and her genuine concern for the welfare of others. 

Overall, it’s hardly one of Paris’s proudest moments and, if she’s being honest, she’d really rather just forget it. If she’d been in her right mind she would have tucked the information away for potential blackmail later on (okay, so maybe that’s not _that_ much better, but still). 

“Oh, girl. You can’t seriously have forgotten.” Louise grins mischievously and Paris experiences the curious sensation of wanting nothing more than to just crawl into a hole and wither up like a plant. “You know. Mr. Medina and Rory’s mom.”

“Can you blame her, though?” says Madeline. “I mean, Mr. Medina is…” She concludes the statement by quirking her eyebrows up and down in a way that makes Paris feel mildly uncomfortable. No, scratch that. _Very_ uncomfortable. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” confirms Louise.

“Absolutely not,” says Paris at the same time. “Although, how am I supposed to know what the hell you even mean by--” she mimics Madeline’s eyebrow motions “--anyways? You have vocal chords. Use them. Just do me a favor and don’t use them too excessively, okay? Because that always leads to even more of a headache than having to decipher your ridiculous gesture-thingys.”

“I thought we had the body language thing, like, down pat,” says Madeline, echoing Paris's exact thoughts from earlier. She looks crestfallen.

“Don’t listen to her,” Louise assures her, offering a comforting pat on the shoulder. “She knows _exactly_ what you mean.” 

“Really?” asks Madeline, looking to Louise for confirmation. “Well then why’d she say no?” 

“I think I have to go to class now,” says Paris loudly. 

“What do you mean? We have lunch next,” Madeline tells her. 

“Well, then, substitute in _class_ for whatever generic excuse you would use for exiting a conversation because assessing the hotness of various male teachers isn’t my idea of a fun time, and I’d really rather be pretty much anywhere else right now. So I’m going to go in some direction, and you’re going to pretend to be happily oblivious to the fact that I’ve just needlessly ditched you, okay? I do it often enough, people, this should be routine.”

“You have to go wax your eyebrows,” Louise suggests.

“Yes,” says Paris instead of getting into an argument with her about the practicality of waxing one’s eyebrows in the middle of the school day. 

“Okay,” says Madeline perkily. She says this as though it makes perfect sense, and Paris has to wonder how often she sneaks out of class to wax her eyebrows. “Later!” 

Paris nods her goodbye before walking off in the opposite direction. 

It’s almost too predictably inconvenient that she walks right smack into none other than Rory Gilmore. 

Paris very nearly hits her, and is only prevented from doing so by lightning-quick reflexes which allow her to duck out of the way at the very last moment. Rory, taken off-guard, lets out a squeak of alarm. 

“What’s your damage, Heather?” Rory sighs wearily upon recognizing that it’s her, once they’re both standing in normal positions and are a good foot away from one another. 

“Damage? What damage?” Paris says, raising her hands in her innocence. “No damage here.” 

Rory looks skeptical and mildly confused. “Really? Because I thought we were on good terms, but now you’re back to throwing books on the floor and whatnot, so I thought I’d better check.” 

“Please,” Paris scoffs. “Just because I went, oh, maybe ten minutes without kicking your ass the other day, that doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you, Gilmore. Not in your wildest dreams.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Rory says. She displays a rather exaggerated eye-roll to go along with the statement. 

“So, what was with you and Mr. Medina earlier?” asks Paris as they begin walking. In the same direction, but that’s just a coincidence. They’re not walking _together_ , they just happen to both be walking in the same general direction. 

“ _Not_ whatever you think it was.” Rory gives her a side-eye that very clearly, in Rory language, translates to a challenge of sorts. This is a challenge with Paris gladly accepts. 

“And what might that be?” she inquires, putting on an expression of mock innocence. 

“You know,” says Rory.

“Do I?”

“Don’t make me say it.” Rory grits her teeth.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Paris assures her. “Anyways, if it wasn’t about this mystical topic about which you won’t enlighten me, why _did_ he keep you? I’m just dying to know.”

“You know, it’s funny, but I don’t actually believe it’s any of your business,” says Rory. They get into the lunch line; once more they’re not doing it _together_ , they just both happen to be getting lunch. Because they both need to eat. Such encounters occur from time to time. 

“Ooh. She’s got bark. Too bad there’s no bite,” Paris taunts. 

“What do you want me to do? Get out a pair of nunchucks and challenge you to a street fight?” 

Paris considers whether or not such a thing would be preferable to the verbal duels they currently favor. “No, this is fine,” she decides. “Although, I would win with the nunchucks. Just saying.” 

“Oh. Try me,” Rory challenges.

_Am I seriously going to let her challenge me to a nunchuck fight and get away with it? No, sir._

“If I ever get access to two extra pairs of nunchucks I’ll take you up on that,” Paris claims. 

Rory gives her an incredulous look. “Okay, I genuinely can’t tell if you’re joking at this point,” she admits. 

“I don’t joke, Gilmore,” says Paris. She reaches out a finger to poke Rory in the side, but it ends up a little more awkward than intended as she jabs her index finger at Rory’s ribcage. _That was a lot more threatening in my head,_ she thinks, then proceeding to make slightly uncomfortable eye contact with her. 

Rory looks as though she’s trying her best to hold back a smile. Not what Paris had been going for in the slightest, but it also doesn’t seem condescending, a fact which strikes Paris as a little strange. There’s supposed to be animosity between them, not whatever bizarre fondness is in Rory’s gaze as of present.

Paris is probably imagining things. 

“Ladies?” addresses the lunch lady in an irritatingly high-pitched voice.

“Oh, sorry,” Rory apologizes to the woman and Paris realizes too late that they’ve just been standing there for a little bit too long. They’re holding up the line. 

In fact, Paris hadn’t even noticed the rather disgusting globs of mashed potatoes paired with slices of meatloaf that have graced their trays. 

“Ick,” she says, making a face down at the food (if she can call it as much). 

The lunch lady scowls at Paris, who promptly remembers that such things are commonly considered rather impolite, especially inside Chilton’s prestigious walls. 

Rory puts a hand on Paris’s shoulder and begins to push her out of the line, sparing an apologetic glance for the woman who’d served them. 

Paris is rather fascinated by the contact. It takes a good five seconds of dumbly staring at the hand for her to realize that she’s letting Rory touch her where she’d cringed away from Louise just a couple hours earlier and remembers to do the same now. It’s a bit late to convince Rory that she really minds, though, even when she crossly brushes a hand at her shoulder as if to cleanse it of Rory’s. Rory looks rather amused by the whole affair, which is in no way the desired effect. In fact, it’s pretty effective in pissing Paris off. 

Paris starts towards one of the tables, only to stop in her tracks upon realizing that Rory is following her.

“Why are you following me?” she asks with an imposing glare (or, she intends for it to be imposing, anyhow).

“Hmm. To annoy you,” Rory gibes almost playfully, the tone of her voice convincing Paris that she intends to do just this. She’s already succeeding, which is, impossibly, even more agitating. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Paris reminds her, not even daring to look behind her. 

“No,” Rory shoots back. “I really, really don’t. _Surely_ you’ve noticed that by now, since, y’know, you sort of have a thing about scrutinizing my every move and all that.” 

“What are you insinuating?” Paris asks suspiciously.

“Well, that depends. What are you insinuating that I’m insinuating?” Rory retaliates. They sit down, Paris ending up with a seat right across from Rory’s. 

“I don’t _want_ to sit with you or anything,” Paris clarifies for maybe the fourth time as she pops the tab on her soda. It makes a sharp hissing sound which is somehow distinguishable among the chatter of all the other students. 

“Yep. You, uh, mentioned,” informs Rory flatly. “And, while it’s all really doing wonders for my ego, I really must ask, why _are_ you sitting with me if you really care this much?” 

Paris takes a long sip from her drink, taking care to make eye contact with Rory over the edge of the can before carefully responding. “Better you than any of these other nitwits.” She gestures around her to said nitwits.

Rory, feigning heartfelt appreciation, puts a hand over her chest. “Aw. Means a lot, Par. Especially coming from you.”

“Don’t call me that,” Paris huffs. 

“Whatever you say,” says Rory.

Paris looks down at her tray. The meatloaf stares back, quite dauntingly, might she add. Paris resigns herself to it, grabbing her plastic spork and spearing a chunk off of the slice and putting it in her mouth.

The texture...it’s almost impressive how bad it is. It really shouldn’t be this bad, given what a pompous school Chilton is. And yet. The texture is awful, the taste very near gag-worthy.

“Bad?” Rory guesses knowingly. 

Paris nods, blanching a little as she swallows the bite. 

“It’s bad. It’s so bad,” she says, gesturing down with the spork. “I’ve never tasted meatloaf this bad. My mouth is offended. I wonder what it’s made of. Worm meat, perhaps? Hell if I know. I doubt I’ve ever tasted worm meat before, because while fast food and I have had a few close calls, I’ve never actually had any. But it’s _so_ bad. So bad that it deserves some sort of prize. Do they make Nobel prizes for bad meatloafs? No, they don’t. But if they did this would get one.” She looks up to see Rory smiling.

“You know, I wish we were allowed to go off campus for lunch,” she comments. “Then we could go get real food. Not ‘til next year.” 

“I wouldn’t, even if we could,” says Paris with an air of superiority. “I would hate to be late to class.”

“Don’t I know it,” Rory mutters. “Anyways, I have Oreos in my backpack. Let’s go.” 

This gets Paris’s attention. On top of the fact that she’s never had one of these fabled Oreos before, the idea of eating them for lunch is simply just not something Paris ever would have considered on her own. And Rory...inviting her to eat Oreos...Rory...eating Oreos for lunch...with Rory...Paris is fairly certain her brain short-circuits.

“I’m sorry, what?” she blurts. 

Rory flashes her a bemused look. “C’mon. I’m not subjecting you to worm meatloaf.” She stands, grabbing the soda can off of her tray and landing the rest of the meal in the trash can, where most of the kids’ servings already sit. “Coming or not?”

“I’m coming,” says Paris, if simply because eating Oreos for lunch sounds like a bizarrely normal and yet entirely novel thing to do, and she’s intrigued. Then there’s Rory, who’s offering to share, and the gesture really shouldn’t come off as affectionate as it does. 

Leaving the cafeteria is a strange relief. Leaving behind the hundreds of gossiping teenagers has the same physical alleviation of leaving behind a stomachache, and Paris lets out an involuntary sigh. “Just a minute,” says Rory, holding up a finger to represent the aforementioned minute before darting off in the direction of her locker. She comes back wielding her backpack. One of the pockets is open, and, sure enough, it’s overflowing with packets of junk food. PopTarts, Oreos, Twinkies, a weird pre-packaged cookie-looking thing...Paris thinks she even spots something called a Slim Jim. 

“Repulsive,” says Paris, wrinkling her nose in disgust, especially with Rory looking remarkably pleased with herself. “Who eats that much sugar?”

“I do,” says Rory promptly. “Hey, don’t blame me. It’s just how I was raised.” She pulls one of the little packets out. “Twinkie?”

“No thanks.” Paris would like nothing more than to never see another Twinkie again in her life. They just look so gross. “Get that thing away from me. As far as possible. I want it shipped to New Zealand, please.”

“Okay.” Rory shrugs, placing the treat gingerly back into her backpack. “More for me.”

They walk outside. For some reason Paris can’t even begin to comprehend, people don’t typically eat outside at Chilton. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s cold as hell (yes, Paris recognizes this simile for the contradictory statement it is) in the winter, but it’s nice right now. Yet nobody’s out. Paris can only assume it’s a social status thing; eating outside would generally mean eating alone, which would generally make one a loser. Or something. 

Rory sits against the brick wall, patting the spot next to her as if to invite Paris to sit. Paris is unsure what to do at first and just stares down at the spot, affronted.

“Sit,” Rory prompts, and Paris does so. 

Rory pulls a long, blue package from her backpack, placing the Oreos between them before pulling it open to reveal, to Paris’s wonder, three long rows of cookies. 

“Fascinating,” Paris notes. 

Rory rolls her eyes. “Paris, I _know_ you’ve had junk food before. Stop acting like you’re above it, because, trust me, nobody is above Oreos.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Paris declares, suspiciously plucking one of the cookies from the package. Tentatively, she takes a bite. Rory watches her.

“Good?”

It _is_ good. A bit unfamiliar, and Paris worries about potential allergic reactions, but she has her allergy meds in her backpack and at the end of the day it’s good. 

“Alright,” Paris allows. The way she shoves the rest of the cookie into her mouth tells a different story. 

Rory smiles. She does that a lot. Less ever since the breakup with Dean, though. It’s a comfort to Paris to think that Rory’s not perpetually happy-- not in a mean way, either. It’s just good to know that nobody can evade sadness entirely, not even Rory Gilmore. 

Paris remembers her stunt with the books earlier in class. She feels a bit bad about the whole thing. Not bad enough to apologize or anything, but enough to admit that, in a _Groundhog’s Day_ sort of scenario (one of the few movies Paris has watched) she’d probably keep her books on the table and her mouth shut the second time around.

Rory takes a cookie of her own and, to Paris’s neverending wonder, pulls the top cookie off of the rest and scrapes the cream filling away from the bottom with her teeth. Paris is enthralled. Why is Rory eating the Oreo this way? Whatever the reason, she has Paris’s full attention. She realizes this, looking up. Her lips are still covered with the filling. “What?”

“Why are you eating it like that?” Paris asks once she’s fully processed having been addressed in the first place. 

“It’s fun, silly,” says Rory before placing the rest of the cookie into her mouth.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Paris declares.

They eat the Oreos in silence for a little while. Paris, not wanting to take more than her fair share in an uncharacteristic bout of concern regarding human decency, only takes a single Oreo for every couple Rory takes.

“You can have more,” Rory offers, pushing the package towards Paris. “I’m not really hungry.”

Wait-- this can’t be right. “I thought you had a never-ending appetite,” says Paris. 

“I do,” says Rory.

“Then why--” Paris’s brain must be especially slow today, because she can’t quite comprehend the idea that Rory eats-everything-on-this-side-of-the-equator-likely-to-take-ten-years-off-of-her-life Gilmore is no longer hungry for cookies. 

Paris loses her appetite when she gets colds. Does Rory have a cold? Maybe, but she isn’t showing any other symptoms. Paris hopes she doesn’t have a cold; she hates sick people (yes, she has plans to become a doctor, what about it?).

Paris tries to think of other occasions on which she’d lost her appetite. One that comes to mind is the time when she’d been in middle school and Trevor Hawkins had laughed in her face upon her suggesting that they go to the middle school dance together, where Madeline and Louise had, rather absurdly given that they had all been twelve, had steady boyfriends. 

Paris is now very glad that twelve year-old Paris had been lacking a boyfriend, but twelve year-old Paris had felt quite differently. 

“Oh,” says Paris slowly. She’s not usually this dull, only when it comes to things regarding peoples’ feelings. “It’s because you're still sad.” 

Rory doesn’t answer, just wraps her arms around her knees and stares into the distance. This in and of itself is answer enough. 

“It’s because of that boy, isn’t it?” Paris realizes, suddenly feeling strangely protective over her friend (for lack of a better term). “I’ll punch him, if you want. No charge. I love punching people. Not for your sake, of course, but just for the sake of if there’s somebody out there who deserves to be punched then justice must be served.” 

“Don’t do _that_ ,” Rory protests. “I appreciate your readiness to break noses on my account, but don’t do that. It’s not his fault.” 

This, likewise to Rory’s preferred method of eating Oreos, is confusing to Paris. If Dean has hurt her, then he definitely has a punch in the face coming. “What? How?” she asks, rather baffled. “It’s gotta be his fault.” Rory snorts with a flat sort of amusement. “What?”

“Just that you have the relationship comprehension of a five year-old,” says Rory. She gives Paris a wry smile, but it falls flat and she just looks sad. Like a teenage girl who’s just had a breakup with her boyfriend should reasonably be. 

“I’m offended,” Paris informs her in lieu of the anger she can’t quite actually muster. 

“Okay.”

“So what happened?” Paris asks, because, despite knowing probably isn’t very kind, her curiosity won’t let her _not_ pump Rory for information. Fortunately, Rory doesn’t seem to take offense. She’d probably predicted something like this upon confiding in Paris, anyways. 

“He was building me a car,” she offers by way of explanation. This is a fact over which she sounds quite distressed. Paris expects her to elaborate. She does not.

“He’s building you a car so you dumped him?” Paris guesses. Then, when Rory doesn’t respond, “or he was building you a car and then he dumped you and you’re sad about the car?” 

“No,” says Rory, giving her a vaguely offended side-eye. In fact, she seems sort of horrified. Paris isn’t sure why. “God, no. Paris, who do you take me for?”

“Well, I’ve been told I have the relationship comprehension of a five year-old, so it’s no wonder I’m having trouble piecing this together, especially given the lack of information with which I’ve been provided.”

“Fair enough,” Rory huffs, resting her chin on her fists and turning straight ahead. Paris follows her gaze and fails to see how the parking lot is at all scenic, or something Rory would want to be looking at. “We were going on a date for our three-month anniversary. It’s going great, then he tells me he has a surprise.”

“And the surprise is that he’s building you a car.” So far, Paris is failing to see the problem. There’s the fact that building Rory a car may have been a little extra on Dean’s part, but you don’t dump a guy over extra. Most people don’t, anyways. 

“Yeah,” says Rory. The wind buffets at her hair, she gives a dejected sniff, and it’s all elegant because of fucking _course_ Rory is a pretty crier. _Damn it._

“He’s building you a car, and--?” Paris prompts, curiosity once more getting the better of her. She has to learn how relationships work before she can expect to successfully enter into one, anyways. That and she needs to be able to properly assess how much blame falls on this Dean guy. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging.” 

“And he told me he loved me. And I’m just sitting there, in this stupid _car_ he’s building with his own two manly hands, blood sweat and tears and whatnot, feeling like such a jerk because, somehow, I can’t say it back.”

“So he dumped you because you didn’t drop the L word after three months and a car.” Paris genuinely can’t believe it; why anybody would dump Rory in the first place is an enigma, but over something so trivial? It’s ludicrous. 

Rory nods, swiping a tear from her left cheek. 

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Paris bursts out, fury at this Dean kid beginning to bubble over the surface. “First of all, you guys are sixteen. Sixteen year olds don’t know love, and it’s pathetic that he’s pretending to, or thinks he does, or anything like that. And then forcing _you_ to, too, getting all butthurt when you don’t? It’s absolutely absurd.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Rory realizes, lifting her head ever so slightly. She’s begun to adopt a defiant look, something which Paris can most certainly get behind. 

“Yeah!” Paris is picking up steam, unwilling to let this Dean character home free without an extensive rant. “He’s an idiot. He’s never going to find anyone better than you. He’ll die alone and you’re better off without him.” 

Rory avoids her gaze. Paris suspects it has something to do with the fact that she has yet to cease crying.

“What if I love him?” she asks. “What if I love him, and I just choked that night because I overthought it or whatever, and I’m actually making a huge mistake? I don’t want t-to miss out on this great guy just because he surprised me a little.” 

“Trust me, you don’t,” Paris says hurriedly. She doesn’t know why she’s so adamant about it. Somehow, the idea of Rory saying she _loves_ this-- this _Dean_ guy, or whatever he calls himself just rubs her the wrong way. “I know you want to crack and tell him you do so things can go back to the way they used to be, but you can’t do that. Because that’s what _he_ wants and you can’t just bend to his every whim.

“If you love him,” she continues, because she’s ranting now, and no force of nature can stop her on a rant, “you’d know that for sure. You wouldn’t _have_ to think about it. Not that I’m saying that as anybody who’s ever been in love. Because people our age don’t _fall_ in love; not credibly, anyways. Romeo and Juliet were just hormonal teens. I’m saying that out of common sense, because it really seems like something that would be pretty damn obvious. And you’re smart. If you weren’t so blinded by teenager-iness you would have figured it out, too.

“Don’t listen to your heart or any cliche shit like that, because whatever your heart’s telling you, your brain’s gonna filter it. So that what you end up deciding is what you _want_ to want to decide, not what you genuinely want. If that makes sense. So I guess if you _really_ love him, go for it or some shit, but I really, really doubt it.” She takes a deep breath, having forgotten to breathe in between words. 

“Ugh,” Rory mutters. “More than that, I just hate that everybody thinks they have to protect me or something.” She turns to Paris. “That’s one of the things I like about you, y’know?”

Paris is rather taken aback by the comment. “What?”

“Part of the reason I like you,” Rory paraphrases. “You don’t think you have to protect me just because I’m sad about the breakup or something. Lane is great, but ever since Dean and I ended she’s just been-- I don’t know-- walking on eggshells to avoid talking about Dean, I guess.” 

Paris considers this. “Why is avoiding talking about him so hard?”

“You know, small town,” says Rory.

“Oh, right.” 

“He works at the only grocery store. And, do you want to know what’s even _worse_?” Rory says, her voice raising in her despair.

“Worse than the fact that Dean’s building a car?” Rory nods. “What?” 

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this for, er, obvious reasons,” Rory sighs, “but what the hell. My mom and Max-- or, Mr. Medina, I guess, calling him Max is just so _weird_ \-- are dating again and she didn’t even _tell_ me!” She throws up her hands in exasperation. 

“Well that’s stupid,” says Paris instantly. “Why wouldn’t she tell you? That’s not the sort of thing you just forget to mention.”

“ _Right?”_ Rory exclaims incredulously. “How hard would it have been to just give me the goddamn memo?”

Paris freezes as she puts two and two together. “Wait. You lied.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. You said that what Mr. Medina pulled you aside to talk to you about wasn’t what I thought it was. That was a lie?”

“I guess it sort of was,” Rory admits, “but not really. He mostly wanted to talk about the breakup, which he really shouldn’t have even _known_ about, and how he didn’t want it to affect my grades and all that, but then he just casually drops in the part about him and my mom going on a date. As if it’s something I should already know! And, you know what, it _is_. I should’ve already known because my mom should've told me.” 

“Do you wish he hadn’t told you?” asks Paris. “Do you wish you just didn’t know?”

“I wish my mom had told me,” says Rory, “but, sort of, yeah. It would just make everything so much less awkward.” She sighs. “Of all the potential hotspots for finding men my mother really had to pick my school. The prestigious private school at which I’m a new student, no less.” 

“I would hate that,” Paris sympathizes. “It’s one of the only good parts about the fact that my parents haven’t quite figured out that divorce yet. No random flings with my teachers. Not that Mr. Medina and your mom is a fling,” she adds hurriedly. “Just saying that if it were my mom, it would be.” 

Rory chuckles dejectedly, giving her a look Paris can’t quite decipher. Appreciation? Exhaustion? Or a mix of both? “Thanks, Paris,” she says. The bell rings. “Thanks for being mean to me earlier, too. With the books. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a jerk move. But it was nice for somebody not to treat me like a ticking time bomb for once,” she adds shortly before getting up and walking away. Paris follows after a pause. She grabs the Oreos, which Rory seems to have forgotten, too. 

“Wait!” she calls after Rory. “Don’t you want your Oreos?” Rory offers no response. “Okay then. I’ll just, ah, give them back later,” Paris rambles on, only to remember that Rory is out of earshot and that she’s more or less talking to thin air. Paris sighs. 

She has to wonder why it is that she cares so much about Rory’s love life. It had made sense when Tristan had been the one about to ask her out, but Paris has absolutely nothing to do with Dean. Nothing. 

Paris had, earlier that day, told Louise that she was not, as she had put it, _chummy_ with Rory. After this particular incident she might be tempted to say otherwise. It’s weird, that’s for sure. Whether it’s a nice weird or a scary weird is a whole different animal.

Paris walks back to class wondering if she’s going to run into Rory on the way. She does not. This is probably for the better, given that such a thing could have potentially been awkward. Still, Paris is disappointed.

***

It’s after the final bell has rang and Paris is just about ready to hop in her car and go on her merry way that she is, to her great distress but little surprise, called to the guidance counselor's office. 

Apparently, Mrs. Burdiness, the school guidance counselor, views her as a real piece of work; at least once a month for as long as Paris has attended Chilton, she’s called in. After so many run-ins with Paris Mrs. Burdiness looks quite cautious as she approaches her.

“Ahh, not this again,” Paris groans, turning to face her. Mrs. Burdiness looks at her apologetically. “Don’t you have something better to do? Some kids to psychoanalyse?” 

“Yes. You’re one of those kids,” says Mrs. Burdiness without skipping a beat. “Every time I call you in we talk about your unnecessary hostility towards teachers and students alike and, each time, you don’t follow my advice. Frankly, it’s exhausting.” 

“I quite agree.” Paris shoots her a defiant glare to rival those of most grown men. “So how about we just go ahead and skip it this time? Just, y’know, keep it between us.” 

“Sweetheart, I have a job to keep up, otherwise I’d be more than happy to take you up on that.” Mrs. Burdiness looks down at Paris, nodding her head in the direction of the school building. “How about you follow me?”

“How about you go get a life?” Paris grumbles. Her nose scrunches up with distaste as she follows the woman with a reluctant huff. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” 

Mrs. Burdiness’s office has, as one might expect, become quite familiar. There are bulletin boards in the corners with flags for different colleges on them, such as ASU and Penn State. In Paris’s opinion, they’re wastes of cloth. Harvard is the only school she’s interested in. 

Mrs. Burdiness’s desk, a heavy, dark, wooden thing, sits in the middle of the office. A mug full of ballpoint pens, none of which actually work, sits by a brass reading lamp. The walls are crammed with various framed images. Paris has never really cared enough to look at the individual pictures. 

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” says Paris as she pulls a wooden chair from where it’s been tucked under the desk and perching in it with an air of superiority. She’s much shorter than Mrs. Burdiness, but it hardly matters when from this angle she can glare up at her like a hawk.

“Lets,” Mrs. Burdiness agrees, taking a seat at the alternate chair.

“Make it snappy,” orders Paris. “I’ve got homework. I’ve got a life. Surprisingly, a part of that life isn’t actually playing checkers with you. Checkers is for chumps, by the way. If you don’t know how to play chess you don’t deserve respect.”

“That seems like a bit of a harsh statement, Ms. Geller,” says Mrs. Burdiness. She gets out a legal pad and grabs one of the ballpoint pens from her mug. She tests one. It doesn’t work, so she grabs another. After about four pens she succeeds. 

“Taking notes now, are we?”

“Just me.” Mrs. Burdiness angles the page so that Paris can’t see it, though not for lack of trying. She strains her neck to look as the counselor jots down some sort of note. 

“What are you writing?” asks Paris, instantly suspicious. “I haven’t even _said_ anything yet!”

“You expressed a disgust for those with an inaptitude for chess. That’s something, something rather worrisome if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“Yes. I noticed.” Mrs. Burdiness turns the legal pad facedown. She and Paris are now facing each other. Paris plays a favorite game of hers, staring the woman in the face to see if she looks away. Mrs. Burdiness seems relatively undaunted, having apparently accepted that there will be no escaping Paris’s wrath. “So, Ms. Geller, tell me about your day.”

“Oh, cut to the chase, woman.”

“This is the chase. How was your day?”

Paris considers. Nothing horrible has happened. No bricks have fallen from the sky and landed on her head. “Alright, I guess,” she mutters. “What about it?” 

“Well,” says Mrs. Burdiness, “I heard from outside sources that you were talking to Ms. Gilmore at lunch.”

“No, I wasn’t,” says Paris just out of instinct. “I mean, I was.”

“So then why would you lie?”

“Habit.” Paris shrugs. “So, what I’m getting from this conversation is that you’ve been stalking me. Anything else?” 

“It’s good that you’re expanding your social circle,” Mrs. Burdiness tells her patiently.

“Fantastic. Do I get a lollipop?” Paris deadpans. 

“I’m not finished.”

“So finish.” 

Mrs. Burdiness folds her hands on top of her desk. “I’ve also heard from outside sources that Ms. Gilmore was quite upset in the time directly following your conversation.”

 _Oh._ That’s _what this is._ Paris gives a pained sigh.

“So, what conclusion have you jumped to here?” 

“I have jumped to the rather reasonable, if I do say so myself, conclusion that something you said offended Ms. Gilmore,” explains Mrs. Burdiness patiently. 

“Well, that’s not true,” says Paris, and she’s strangely cocky about the fact that it isn’t even a lie. 

“Would you like to offer an alternate explanation, in that case?” Mrs. Burdiness presses. 

“Is that a choice?”

“No, not really.”

Paris scowls, knowing fully well that, whatever she says, Mrs. Burdiness isn’t going to believe her. “Would you believe me if I told you that Rory was upset over something entirely independent of our conversation at lunch today?”

Mrs. Burdiness raises her eyebrows. Paris studies her body language, her guarded expression, in an attempt to determine whether or not she believes her.

“Well, Ms. Geller, I’d quite like to give you the benefit of the doubt here. It’s just that you-- how do I say this-- have an extended history of making the other children cry, and I know you’ve never been fond of Ms. Gilmore.”

“Both true,” Paris allows. “And I know there’s really no point in defending my case here. It’s like a guy with a criminal record saying he just happened to be at the bank around the time it was robbed. But, if you actually believe in this _benefit of the doubt_ stuff, even just a little bit, then let me just go ahead and say that, as much as I would like to take credit for having made Rory cry, I didn’t.” 

Mrs. Burdiness harbors an expression of guarded surprise as she scribbles something more onto the legal pad. Paris takes this to mean that she actually _does_ believe her.

“Oh. Not what you expected to hear, huh?”

“Not exactly,” Mrs. Burdiness admits, “but I have to say that i’m quite proud of you.”

“What, because I didn’t make a kid cry?” Paris scoffs. “You must think even lesser of me than I thought.” 

“I know you’re a good kid, Paris,” Mrs. Burdiness backtracks, “it’s just that you’re also quite...troubled.”

“Give me those notes,” demands Paris, making a grab for the legal pad which is being quite firmly kept away from her. 

Paris is reminded of one of those cat videos online with the cats’ owners keeping the mouse toys just out of reach as she works to snag the notes, Mrs. Burdiness keeping them effortlessly away from her. 

“How about we put the notes away?” Mrs. Burdiness suggests. She rips the top page off of the legal pad, crumpling it into a ball and landing it in the trash can. “So now that everything’s out in the open, let’s have our chat.” 

The discardment of the note, while not entirely satisfactory, is enough of a victory that Paris complies. 

“Okay, fine. But, really, what is there to talk about? What with the generational gap I don’t suppose we have too much in common.”

In truth, Mrs. Burdiness doesn’t even look that old. Paris probably should’ve saved that jab for one of the dinosaurs of teachers that roam the halls. 

“I’m sure that’s true,” Mrs. Burdiness concedes, unphased, “but we _do_ have one common interest.” 

“And what might that be?” 

“Your well being, Paris.”

The answer is so depressingly predictable and school counselor-y that Paris buries her face in her hands and lets out a long groan. “Oh, for f--” She remembers her disinclination to swear in front of teachers and sucks in a deep breath. “Okay,” she says instead. 

“Good,” says Mrs. Burdiness. “I see you're working on your rage control.” 

“Oh, I’ll show you rage control,” Paris mutters, balling one of her hands into a fist under the table and glowering at Mrs. Burdiness.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” approves Mrs. Burdiness. Paris is convinced that she picks up on the sarcasm and has just chosen to ignore it for the sake of irritating her. 

“Ugh,” says Paris. She needs to find a hard surface and slam her head against it. Somehow, she always manages to forget Mrs. Burdiness’s love for their monthly _visits_ until they actually happen, but she always hates them more than any other activity Chilton requires of her. “Time for round…” She tries to count the amount of times she’s been in this office. “Wow. I’ve lost count. _Surely_ you’d have deduced that I’m a lost cause by now.” 

“No child is a lost cause,” Mrs. Burdiness reassures her. “In fact, students with the misconception that they’re, as you put it, a lost cause make up the majority of those I visit with.” 

“Like who?” Paris wants to know.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” 

“Of course you’re not,” sighs Paris. “Could’a predicted that one. Okay, go on.” 

“Paris, I’m afraid that the way we do things isn’t quite traditional when it comes to school counseling,” says Mrs. Burdiness. “When I see a student struggling the way you are I speak with them a few times, talk with their parents, and set up for them to visit a therapist.”

“You think I need _therapy?”_ Paris bursts out, rather incredulously. 

“Yes, yes I do,” Mrs. Burdiness replies. 

“Why, why _why_ does that come as a surprise?” groans Paris. “You’re probably like dentists referring kids to orthodontists. Just refer all the kids.” 

“I promise I don’t do that.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Paris grumbles. 

“I’ve not been able to do that for you because your parents have expressed a, er, _distaste_ for the mental healthcare industry.” The way she grimaces saying this, Paris is sure this conversation had not been a friendly one. 

“Good.”

“No, not good,” Mrs. Burdiness corrects. “It shows a concerning lack of interest in your wellbeing.” 

“If that means you can’t make me go to therapy I’m still glad,” Paris retaliates. She could’ve told you about the whole _concerning lack of interest_ thing herself. 

“Paris, if I’ve inferred one thing about you it’s that nobody can make you do anything you don’t want to,” Mrs. Burdiness says. “I think that if you could get an accurate sense of the positive impact this could have on your life that nobody would have to.” 

“Yeah, yeah yeah. So, you never actually told me _why_ I need therapy. Were you ever going to get to that part?” 

“Of course,” says Mrs. Burdiness with an air of sympathy that makes Paris want to slap her. “Paris, I think you have an issue with stress.”

Paris isn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this particular statement is so obvious that all she can really think is _um, duh._ “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” she says, apparently forgetting the whole not-swearing-to-teachers thing. Also, the whole respecting teachers thing, although that had always been more of a guideline than a rule. 

Mrs. Burdiness raises her eyebrows, neglecting to comment on Paris’s use of inappropriate language. “And it never once struck you to, oh, I don’t know, do something about it?”

“No,” Paris confirms instantly. “I view it as a blessing, actually.”

Mrs. Burdiness looks rather skeptical. “Really.”

“Really,” echoes Paris. “I mean, I can hardly afford to get lax about my schoolwork or, before I know it, it’ll be community college and McDonalds. I, for one, will not stand for McDonalds. _Tell_ me I’m wrong.” 

“You’re not wrong,” acknowledges Mrs. Burdiness. “Not about the McDonalds thing, and although community college is absolutely valid-- I’ll pick a fight with you over that one later-- I admire your ambition. I just think you’re a bit off in your assessment that the best way to get into Harvard, or Yale, or--”

“Harvard.”

“-- Harvard is to perpetually torture yourself.” 

“Well, it sounds bad when you put it like that.” 

“It _is_ bad.”

“I respectfully disagree,” disputes Paris in a tone which implies that there is no respect whatsoever in the matter. 

Mrs. Burdiness studies her over the table. “Well, how would you put it?” 

“Pushing myself in a way which will ensure my admittance into my college of choice,” says Paris. 

“I think you need to relax,” Mrs. Burdiness objects. “Slow down. Smell the flowers.”

“You slow down and you die.” 

“That’s one way of looking at it,” says Mrs. Burdiness. “But when was the last time you enjoyed yourself?” 

Paris considers the question. “This morning,” she answers. “I had a nice time with Rory earlier. Y’know, before I didn’t make her cry.” 

“That’s good.” Mrs. Burdiness grins encouragingly. “And before that?” 

Paris thinks about this. And thinks some more. And then some more.

“That time I _did_ make Rory cry,” she says eventually. She doesn’t actually think she’s ever made Rory cry, though it’s entirely possible she just wasn’t there to witness the actual crying part. But she _has_ had a hell of a time tormenting her.

“Okay.” Mrs. Burdiness looks like she’s trying extremely hard to withhold judgement. “Wouldn’t you prefer to enjoy yourself in a less, uh, morally gray manner?” 

“We don’t live in a Disney movie, woman.” 

“Maybe not. That’s no reason for you to be sadistic.” 

Paris feels a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. She’s finally gotten Mrs. Burdiness to crack, that guarded patience slipping away. 

“You know what I think?” asks Mrs. Burdiness.

“You’re going to tell me what you think regardless of whether or not I invite it, aren’t you?” guesses Paris. 

“Unless you expressly ask me not to, then, yes, more likely than not.”

Paris sighs defeatedly. “Alright. Have at it.” 

“I think you lash out at others as a way of expressing frustration at outside factors in your life.”

 _Again: duh._ Paris rolls her eyes. “Tell me something I didn’t know.” Mrs. Burdiness cocks her head, studying her. This makes Paris vaguely uncomfortable; she doesn’t especially want to be studied. “Why are you staring at me?”

“I just think it’s interesting how young people feel a need to act like they know everything. It’s okay not to know everything, you know.” 

“Okay,” says Paris plainly. She doesn’t really have much to say to this, because it’s true. She doesn't know everything (not yet, anyways). “I guess you’ve gotten me there. But you’ve gotta admit that it’s credible that I would know more about me than you do.” 

“Sometimes an outsider’s perspective can be beneficial in situations where one is in so deep they have a hard time even identifying problems in their lives.” 

“I _don’t_ have a hard time with that, therefore an outsider’s perspective is decidedly not very helpful.”

“Sure,” says Mrs. Burdiness. “But if you could’ve told me all this, why haven’t you taken action towards fixing these things?” 

“I don’t need fixing,” Paris spits, stiffening in her chair. 

“That’s not what I said.” 

“Yes, it is,” says Paris firmly. “That’s what you do for a living. You help people find colleges, but you also try to fix them. It’s your literal job.” 

“Sometimes people need help. And most of the time people come to me for that help.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Paris snaps. “So I don’t suppose you’d mind if I just up and left right now.” 

“I already told you I can’t stop you from doing anything.” Mrs. Burdiness shrugs indifferently. “Just consider what I’ve had to say.”

“Oh, consider my ass,” Paris mutters as she storms out of the room. Mrs. Burdiness makes no effort to retrieve her. 

Paris has talked enough about peoples’ feelings today alone to last a lifetime, and it’s not a pattern she’s too keen to continue. 

Still, now that the ideas Mrs. Burdiness had planted in her mind are there, Paris knows she’ll be hard-pressed to forget it. 

***

Later that night, Paris takes some homework to the local library. Usually they don’t like for people to loiter, but, mercifully, so long as Paris opens a book every once in a while and doesn’t do anything an old woman may consider to be scandalous, it typically takes at least four hours or so before anybody bothers to kick her out (kindly, which Paris can certainly appreciate). A couple of the librarians are miserable-looking teenage boys who don’t seem to care at all. 

For her Henry James novel, Paris has picked out _The Princess Casamassima_ , if mostly because it’s one of the few Henry James novels she has yet to read. The idea is that if she can finish the novel in a couple of nights, she can spend a little bit longer on the report. 

She’s just settling in for some reading when she looks up to see, looking like a deer in headlights under the fluorescent lighting, none other than Rory Gilmore. Paris has to do a double take; Rory looks just about ready to dart out the door. This won’t be happening, not if Paris has anything to do with it.

“What are you doing here?” she calls over her book, brows furrowed.

“I...like books,” Rory mutters. She grabs a book from the shelf immediately beside her as if to demonstrate. “See? Same as you.”

“But I live here.”

“In the library?”

“No, you dullard,” Paris scoffs. “In Hartford. Doesn’t that charming little town of yours have libraries of its own?”

“Of course it does,” says Rory. For a moment she seems almost defensive. This fades quickly. “I just didn’t see what I wanted is all.” She avoids eye contact, looking strangely guilty. Maybe it’s the weird library lighting or the fact that it’s dark outside. 

“Okay,” says Paris. It seems like an awful long way to drive for a book, but if anyone were willing to drive forty minutes for a novel, Paris would be damned if it isn’t Rory. If Rory’s going to be frequenting Hartford’s library, though, Paris’ll have to find a new establishment at which to do homework.

It feels really bizarre to be seeing Rory outside of the context of school. Paris is suddenly self-conscious of the sweater she’s wearing which probably hasn’t been washed in too long. 

“My grandparents live here, you know,” Rory continues. “It’s not _that_ odd to think that I’d be visiting or something.” 

Paris realizes that the interaction is rather awkward. Whether this is due to the fact that they’re not in school or the fact that the last time they’d seen each other, Rory had been in tears, Paris is unsure. She figures it has to be some combination of the two. Either way it’s uncomfortable. 

“I thought you visited Fridays,” Paris points out (a fact which she knows not because she cares, in fact she’s not sure how she knows). Rory having caught her off-guard, she doesn’t have any of her typical snappy comments. This leaves them to just talk like normal people. 

“I do,” says Rory. “I’m also visiting today.”

She takes another book from the shelves. Paris is fully convinced that she hadn’t even looked at the title before doing so. She looks exhausted. 

“Why? Tomorrow is Friday.” 

“I just wanted to get away from Stars Hollow,” says Rory finally. She slides both books back onto the shelf. 

“Oh,” says Paris. “Why?”

“I got into a fight with my mom about the Mr. Medina thing,” Rory explains. She hesitates. Paris briefly expects her to say more on the subject. 

“What?”

“Do you know any good coffee places around here?”

This catches Paris’s attention. “You’re going to have coffee at eight in the evening?”

Rory merely shrugs. “Well, do you?”

“No. I don’t drink coffee.”

“Of course. Thanks anyways.” 

Rory heads for the door without stopping to pick up any books, a fact which Paris does not fail to notice. “Rory?” she says before she can stop herself. Rory looks over.

“Yes, Paris?” 

Paris considers her conversation with Mrs. Burdiness earlier, the whole thing about her _lashing out._ Or whatever words had been used. 

“I’m pretty sure I’ve already told you this, but I really am sorry I told everyone about Mr. Medina and your mom that one time.” Apologies from Paris are quite rare, and Rory looks a bit surprised to have received one. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” says Rory flatly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“You, too. Bye, Rory.” 

_Rory_. Usually Paris just ends up calling her Gilmore, and this feels more informal. It’s strange. Paris has the fleeting thought that it’s strange in a way she could get used to.

Paris stares at the empty doorway long after Rory actually leaves. By the time she looks back down at her book, she finds that she’s forgotten what had actually been happening.

So Paris does something she hardly ever does: she decides to table the homework, shutting the novel and placing it in her backpack along with everything else she’d gotten out. 

The interaction with Rory had been so beyond any they’ve had before, and Paris takes a little while to process it.

There’s the fact that Rory has, apparently, run away from home, if just for a night of two. This in and of itself is a bit of a shock; Paris has always been under the impression that Rory’s relationship with her mother is more or less flawless.

Still, she supposes, everybody falls out from time to time, regardless of how close they are. She and Rory have, for example, had many falling-outs. Not that they’re friends or anything, but they seem to have developed a richer relationship than just acquaintances.

Then again, Paris has no way of knowing if this is a sentiment Rory shares. Maybe Rory just views her as an acquaintance. 

_I think she’s my best friend,_ Paris realizes. Because while Madeline and Louise are nice to her, and Paris has a decent relationship with both of them, and Paris has no qualms with hanging out with either of them, they’ve never really connected. 

So maybe Rory _is_ her best friend. She’s also Paris’s biggest competition, and they’re also sort of arch-nemeses. 

Paris ends up chalking it up to _it’s complicated_ , which she’s fully aware makes it sound like she’s a fourteen year-old girl with an unrequited crush on a guy which she refuses to admit is unrequited. 

_But,_ the little voice in the back of Paris’s mind protests, _it really_ is _complicated. Very complicated._

Complicated because, no matter how much she and Rory fight, through some miracle they always end up coming out of it even better friends. Paris has to wonder if this is how best friendships typically work and, if so, why they have to be so complicated. 

One of the librarians, a sweet little old lady who has grown to recognize Paris, hobbles over to the table where she sits, her face riddled with anxiety as she opens her mouth and says, “uh, dear?”

“Yeah, I know,” Paris huffs impatiently, swinging her backpack over her shoulders. “No loitering, gonna have to ask me to leave...we’ve done this a thousand times, woman. Save your breath. I’m going.”

“Thank you, dearie.” The woman sounds intensely relieved. “Have a nice evening, alright?”

The appropriate response would probably be _you too_. Paris, instead, opts to say nothing as she exits the library. 

Rory, walking into the library looking defeated and Paris apologizing to her.

Paris can almost imagine some sort of alternate universe where she’s more of your stereotypical teenage girl as opposed to the perpetually stressed, uptight, socially awkward mess that she is (according to Mrs. Burdiness, anyways). In this universe they’re real, honest-to-goodness friends. They could go to coffee shops together or something and talk about boys without Paris feeling all weird about it. 

Of course, Rory has a friend like that. Lane Kim, who Paris isn’t sure she’s ever met but whom Rory talks about with a sort of happy, childlike reminiscence. _Friends_ like that, because she would even consider Rory’s relationship with her mother to be like that. 

Sometimes all Paris wants is to be on that end of the equation. Hear Rory laugh a little more often. 

But Paris also wants to go to Harvard, so stressed and uptight it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not actually sure if they had school guidance counselors do this sorta thing back in 2001, or even if it's a separate job entirely, but let's just go with it for now. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, thanks for reading! Slowburns are so much harder than what I usually do, but it's been a fun challenge even if my Google Docs document is getting rather chaotic after 30,000 words. See you next week :)


	3. Chapter 3

Paris is fairly confident she can successfully avoid Rory. She does, too, until one day she, Madeline, and Louise are walking through the corridor and run into her. Paris would have had no trouble whatsoever ignoring such an incident if it hadn’t been for Madeline catching Rory’s attention. 

“Ooh! Rory. Favor. Big one,” says Madeline chipperly. Rory stops, a few books clasped in her hands. A flat, pink one at the bottom and a big, lime green one on the top of the pile. Rory looks to Madeline, who points expertly at her own chin. “Look at the face.” 

“Sure, what?” Rory concurs, looking politely interested. 

“Could I get your biology notes from Tuesday? I was out.”

“To lunch,” Louise interjects. 

Paris is entirely unsure why they can’t just ask for _her_ notes; later, she’ll ask and get the response that her notes are too _complicated_ and _convoluted_ and _so dull that if I tried to read them over I would probably just drop out of Chilton in my sorrow_. As if Rory’s notes are all sunshine and kittens. They aren’t, information which Paris has gleaned from making a routine of glowering across the classroom at the back of her head. 

“Please?” pleads Madeline, offering Rory her best puppy eyes. 

“Sure,” says Rory amicably. Paris feels a twinge of annoyance; she can never get Madeline and Louise to be quite as hostile towards Rory as she’d like. Then again, she’s been failing in that department lately, too. Rory’s just too difficult to dislike. “I have them at home. I can bring them later.” 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” chirps Madeline, apparently satisfied with this answer.

“One more and you’re done,” Paris warns. 

“Thank you.” Madeline nods almost regally towards Rory, a dismissal of sorts. As Rory walks off, Madeline continues talking. “So. I’ve decided I’m now _completely_ into Judy Garland. Did you see the TV movie? Pretty intense.” She says _pretty intense_ in a singsong tone. 

“I think they used my mother’s medicine cabinet in that,” Louise chimes in. There’s absolutely no doubt in Paris’s mind about this much. Louise’s mother’s fancy-ass medicine cabinet is exactly the kind of medicine cabinet that would be perfect for television. Paris knows this from the time she’d been at Louise’s house and experienced a headache of grand proportions. 

“She was the Courtney Love of her day,” says Madeline. 

“Show me a trend and I’ll show you Madeline,” says Paris. They’re beginning to walk alongside the lockers over to Paris’s so she can get her books. 

“Judy Garland is trendy?” Madeline sounds almost dismayed by this news. 

“Completely,” Paris confirms. 

It’s around here that Paris tunes out to the conversation, likely due to Tristan’s casually not-so-casually leaning back against the locker right by hers. _What does he want?_

“Hi,” Paris greets. She’s really only doing it so that she can prove to herself an ability to act like a normal human being around him (not that she acts like a normal human at the best of times, but still).

“Ooh, what are those?” asks Louise, referring to the two slips of blue and white paper Tristan holds. 

“Oh, PJ Harvey tickets,” says Tristan. He sounds quite cocky about this. Meanwhile, Paris is entirely uncertain as to who PJ Harvey even is. 

“Really,” says Louise.

“Cool,” Madeline marvels. 

“Who’re you going with?” Louise wants to know. Paris is secretly glad she’s asked-- admittedly, she’d been wondering, just unwilling to ask herself. 

“Rory,” says Tristan at once. And just like this, any semblance of a normal, rage-free day has vanished into thin air.

 _“What?”_ Paris barks instantly. She can’t have heard him right. There’s no way Rory, who has recently broken up with her boyfriend and has been feeding her bullshit about _we’re too good for him_ for a good week now, has agreed to a date with the human slug that is Tristan Dugray. 

“Rory’s going out with you?” Even Louise sounds surprised. There’s a bit of a shocked chuckle in her tone. 

“Yes, she is.” Tristan presses himself further back against the locker. Now he’s entirely cocky about it, and there’s a self-righteous smirk beginning to form on his face. Paris is reminded of some tropical bird’s mating dance. That of a peacock, perhaps. 

“No, she’s not,” Paris objects disbelievingly. Her heart rate begins to pick up as she turns to Tristan, though, wondering what the possibility even is that this is true. 

“Oh, I promise I’m telling the truth,” Tristan assures her. He holds up the little slips of paper. “Tickets. Genuine tickets.” He pronounces _genuine_ with a long I, something Paris may have found charming back when she considered herself into him. These days stuff like his inability to properly pronounce the word _genuine_ is actually just annoying as shit. 

Paris feels herself growing angry, still considering the potential truth of Tristan’s words and all that Rory’s said to her to suggest otherwise. _And what’s the chance that she’s just a dirty, manipulative liar after all?_ Paris stands her ground, but her voice shakes.

“She told me she didn’t like you.” 

“Why, Paris, I think people are allowed to change their minds, don’t you?” argues Tristan. Paris still can’t decide whether or not she’s looking at his poker face.

“I think so, too, but, see, Rory _wouldn’t_ change her mind. Not about human scum like you,” growls Paris, doing her best to loom intimidatingly despite the height difference. It works surprisingly well, if the nervous look Tristan has started to adopt is anything to go by. 

“Well, then it’s a bit strange that she actually did,” snarks Tristan, having yet to back down. “I don’t know why you’re so against this, anyways. I thought you and I agreed we were better off friends.”

“Yeah, well, now _I_ change my mind about you,” seethes Paris. “I don’t want to be friends with somebody with all the intelligence of a potted plant.”

Tristan gives her a sideways look of mock hurt, putting a hand to his chest. “Why, Paris, I’m wounded. _Surely_ you wouldn’t say something like that out of jealousy.” 

“I wouldn’t and I’m not.”

“Good. Because, since you and Rory are friends, I would think you’d be glad that she and I are going to have a great time at PJ Harvey. She was so excited when I asked. I think she’s been playing hard-to-get with me. Quite charming, if I do say so myself.”

“You’re lying,” says Paris, but it’s too late. The doubt has already made its home in her mind.

“What can I say?” Tristan shrugs. “Sometimes girls like Rory aren’t too clear about their emotions. Boy, she looked so happy. I thought she was going to kiss me right then and there.” 

He’s probably lying or at the very least exaggerating, but the more he talks the more Paris can imagine it in her mind’s eye. So vividly, too. _What if he’s not?_

Paris is reminded of how ladies in the seventeenth century would reject a guy’s proposal, wait for him to ask again, now supposedly so overcome with yearning that he can no longer live without her, and _then_ say yes. Maybe Rory is channeling her inner seventeenth century lady. 

And then Paris thinks about Rory being all nice to her. All those times she’d responded to Paris’s jibes and taunts with her relentless kindness. Suddenly, Paris gets it.

_She’s not nice. She’s just some sort of sociopath. The kind of person who charms people and then hurts them._

Somehow Paris doubts Rory is an honest-to-goodness sociopath, but in her anger this is hardly any solace. She certainly shares mannerisms with sociopaths, that’s for sure.

“The lying bitch,” Paris seethes. She can hardly even hear what’s going on around her anymore. All she can hear is Rory, in her head, feeding her lies like _you’re out of his league_ and _that’s one of the things I like about you_. 

“Woah, Paris, don’t be mean to my date, I beg of you.” Tristan is clearly enjoying this very much, too much. Paris can see it in his lackluster smirk. 

This is what finally makes Paris snap. She lets out a frustrated screech of sorts before grabbing the door of her locker and throwing it into place with such fury that it makes a _slam_ which startles seemingly everybody in the hall. It doesn’t stay in place, so Paris repeats the process until it does. This takes around three tries, and the angrier she gets the more her classmates, who have just been innocently ignoring her, begin to nervously snicker and back away. They’re murmuring things Paris isn’t quite close enough to make out. 

“There’s no reason to be so angry,” Tristan presses. “You can’t judge _true love_ , after all.” He says the words _true love_ almost scornfully. Mockingly. 

Madeline hesitantly puts a hand on her arm, in such a way that it could be retracted at a moment’s notice if necessary if Paris were to suddenly grow fangs and threaten to bite her head off. Paris yanks her arm away. 

“Woah. Girl, you good?” says Louise in a tone indicative of alarm.

 _“Just peachy,”_ Paris seethes in a manner which suggests the contrary. She whirls on Louise, fists clenched and in a position reminiscent of a fighting stance.

Madeline and Louise back off too after this. The only person who doesn’t is Tristan, who just stands there, smirking cruelly, huffing in his apparent amusement. Paris feels her eyes begin to sting and stalks off, everybody giving her a solid four feet or so as she does. 

“We’re mad at Rory, right?” Madeline calls after Paris.

Paris neglects to dignity this with a response. 

***

To say that Paris is in the best mood for the rest of the day would be the understatement of all understatements. 

After about an hour of stomping around the school and glaring at anyone and everybody she meets like it’s some sort of twisted all-you-can-eat buffet, Paris succeeds in her mission of scaring off every soul at Chilton-- save for Rory. Rory has, by some miracle, managed to avoid Paris ever since her having come across the particular gem of information which is her betrayal (or, at least, Paris sees it as a betrayal).

By the end of the day, Paris’s anger wears into a sort of bitterness. More than that, though, she’s just sad and a bit exhausted by the whole ordeal. As it turns out, a day of anger mixed with a night or two of limited sleep can lead to fatigue. Who knew? 

Just a couple nights earlier Paris had told Rory that _I don’t drink coffee._ This is true, but Paris feels about ready to just collapse in exhaustion and sleep for a year, so she decides it prudent to visit a local coffee shop.

Even thinking about coffee reminds Paris of Rory, and thinking about Rory makes Paris angry. Still, the adrenaline that comes with the aggravation of thinking about Rory helps Paris stay awake, so she welcomes it as she orders. 

“I’ll have…” Paris trails off, scanning the menu. Since she hardly ever drinks coffee, she’s not sure what to get. She’s tempted to just get a regular black coffee, but there are so many kinds of that alone (what the hell is a dark roast? How does it differ from a medium roast? So many questions) that she ends up just picking the first menu item she lays eyes on. “...a chocolate chip mocha.”

“Are you a part of our rewards system?” asks the excessively perky girl behind the counter. She looks to be about Paris’s age. Clearly less accomplished. 

“No.”

“Would you like to sign up?”

“No, I don’t want to be a part of the damn rewards program,” Paris snaps. The girl winces.

“Well, alright then,” she mutters, ducking her head down. “That’ll be three fourty-five.”

“Otherwise known as too much.” 

The girl-- Cassidy, as her name tag identifies her-- looks rather flustered and a tiny bit scared by the encounter. Paris can’t bring herself to care as she throws the amount down onto the counter. She doesn’t give a tip. Such incompetent service certainly does not warrant one. 

“Can I get a name for that?”

After ordering, Paris partakes in standing against the wall, unconsciously scowling as she waits for her drink. 

“Bad day?”

Paris jumps slightly upon hearing an unfamiliar voice, recognizably female, and turns to the offender. She looks to be about eighteen and is dressed annoyingly fashionably. She’s got makeup on, but the way the eyeliner is a bit uneven makes Paris think that she probably doesn’t wear it often. Meaning this is probably a special occasion for her, meaning she’s probably on a date. The mere idea of a coffee shop date is so aggravatingly cute that it makes Paris want to punch somebody.

“What’s it to you?” Paris shoots back, vaguely startled by the sudden encounter. 

“Eh, I guess nothing.” The woman shrugs, not seeming too heavily offended nor compelled to leave Paris in peace. “Just making conversation.”

“Could you not?” 

‘Mhm,” says the woman noncommittally. She doesn’t go away, just stands there for five minutes or so before trying again. “Waiting for the bathroom,” she clarifies when Paris looks at her questioningly. 

“Fantastic,” mutters Paris. 

“So, was I right?” she continues, apparently either not noticing just how done Paris is with this conversation (despite her having blatantly said as much) or not caring.

“Right about what?”

“Bad day.” She hesitates. “I mean, it’s not like you _have_ to talk to me or anything, but--”

“No,” Paris lies bluntly, taking care to interrupt her before some spiel about _talking about your problems_ and how healthy it’s supposed to be can occur. She’s done enough talking about peoples’ feelings in the past week to last her a lifetime. The way she huffs it through gritted teeth, though, tells a different story entirely. 

“Oh,” says the woman. She doesn’t seem to believe Paris, but doesn’t fight her on this point, likely on the account of their being total strangers. “Well, I am.”

“How so?” sighs Paris, glumly aware of the fact that the woman is very much intending to tell her regardless of the answer. 

“I’ve been stood up!” she cries dramatically, throwing her hands into the air in an exasperated gesture. “I had a date I was supposed to go on at three. It’s--” She takes a moment to check her watch. “-- three forty-five and my date is nowhere to be seen. Can you believe it? The injustice!” 

Paris has the brief thought that the guy this woman was supposed to go on a date with has probably dodged a bullet, what with how incessantly chatty she is. 

Then she remembers her own date with Tristan, how she’d spent the whole time talking. He’d seemed a little exasperated, and she suddenly finds herself wishing the woman’s date had gone as planned, or at least gone at all.

She also finds herself wondering if this woman’s date has a valid excuse for not showing up. Did he forget, or had he just decided he didn’t want to? Either option shows a disgusting lack of respect towards women and, frankly, just people in general.

“Oh, I can believe it,” grunts Paris. “Men are imbeciles.” 

Paris has to wonder if she’ll be getting her mocha in a to-go cup. She hadn’t thought to check, but now she’s hoping this is the case, if just to get out of unnecessary social interaction.

The woman opens her mouth to say something when she is, for the second time in five minutes, cut off abruptly. 

“Chocolate chip mocha for Paris!” calls the barista (not Cassidy, a different one who Paris has yet to offend) quite chipperly, putting a drink on the counter.

“Cool name,” comments the woman conversationally. 

Paris grunts her acknowledgement as she leans forward to pick up the drink. It _is_ in a to-go cup, a fact for which she could not be more grateful. She takes a sip and regrets the order nearly instantly: it is _insanely_ sweet. 

“So, you’re one of those private school kids, right?” This woman seems convinced that, if she just talks enough, Paris will suddenly want to participate in a conversation with her. She could not be more wrong. Paris nods. “I could tell from the uniform.” 

“Ah. A fellow inmate, I presume?” Paris looks at her questioningly; she certainly has the look of a private school kid. Plus, she has a Cornell button pinned onto her denim jacket, which means she has aspirations similar to Paris’s own. 

“A graduate, actually, but yeah,” the woman informs Paris with a nod. Which means she’s probably _going_ to Cornell, not just aspiring. Good for her; it’s no Harvard, but it’s decent. “How could you tell?”

“Sixth sense.” 

Paris takes another sip of her mocha, grimacing at the tooth-rotting chocolaty sweetness. The fact that she’s finishing it at all is a testament to how tired she’d been from all of the rage of earlier. It still sits in her throat, ready to be conjured back up at a moment’s notice. 

“Woman, do you ever just feel betrayed?” asks Paris. It’s not something she’d planned to say, and she now wishes she hadn’t.

The woman gives her an amused sideways glance. “Because it’s not as though I’m experiencing the ultimate form of betrayal as we speak.” She sighs woefully. “No romance for me, I guess.” 

“It’s a hard knock life, sister,” Paris agrees, wincing upon belatedly recognizing this as a distinctly Rory thing to say. 

They stand against the wall in silence for a couple more minutes, Paris working on finishing her abhorrent coffee drink and the stranger staring wistfully off into the distance. 

“Oh, hey!” The woman’s eyes light up as she turns to the door. “There’s my date! I guess I haven’t been stood up after all. It’s my lucky day.” 

“Good for you,” Paris says in an unexcited manner. Somehow, the idea that this woman’s day has turned around for the better makes her even grumpier, although the same part of her that had felt sorry for her is vaguely satisfied with the situation’s outcome. She follows the woman’s gaze through the glass doors. “Which one?” she adds, because curiosity has simply gotten the better of her. 

The woman points. Paris looks in the general direction at which she is pointing and can’t tell who it is she’s even pointing to. There are a couple of old guys, but since it’s obviously not any of them, Paris figures he’s hidden among a couple of women walking through the door. She doesn’t really care.

“Nice meeting you!” says the woman happily before starting in the direction of the door. 

Resigned to the disgustingly sweet mocha, Paris goes back to wallowing in her own bitter attitude, missing the company despite not having appreciated it at the time. 

“So much for betrayal,” she mutters to herself. 

It occurs to Paris that a drink this sweet is probably something Rory would take enjoyment in, which makes her mood even worse. She really _had_ lied; she _is_ having a bad day. 

Paris doesn’t bother to take a seat at any of the tables, instead just continuing to lean against the wall. Her intent had been to leave the shop once she’d gotten her drink, but she no longer feels compelled to now that the talkative woman is out of her hair. Now she just feels sort of defeated. 

The mocha isn’t even that bad, not once Paris has gotten used to it. She’s about three fourths of the way through when she looks up at the other people in the shop, crowded around the tables and chatting animatedly with one another.

It takes Paris a second to pinpoint the woman she’d been talking with-- or, rather, who had been talking at Paris-- but, once she does, Paris notices that she seems quite content talking with her date. 

_That’s probably how Rory’ll look at PJ Harvey. The backstabbing--_

Paris’s thoughts are stopped in their tracks when she actually catches sight of the woman’s date. She is, to put it bluntly, very female. 

And while Paris has, of course, always been aware of the existence of queer women, it’s a bit startling to actually see one. Who she’d had an entire ten minute conversation with or, more accurately, who had talked at Paris for ten minutes while she’d seethed-- same difference.

 _Is that her?_ Paris wonders, because it’s always entirely possible that she’s mistaken somebody else for the woman and these two are just gal pals out for coffee. After further examination, Paris realizes that, yes, she’s definitely got the right woman. 

Paris is startled out of her fury as she takes a moment to just stare. She’s aware that she’s being rude and all that-- not even in the way she’s usually rude but in a more obtrusive, genuinely offensive manner-- but she can’t really help it.

Before now, lesbians and just gay people in general had seemed, well, almost like a fairytale of sorts. Something you hear about but that never actually makes an occurrence in everyday life. In this way, Paris’s interaction with the woman is starting to feel more like she’d unknowingly been conversing with a mythical creature.

Paris instantly dismisses the thought. _Don’t be stupid, Paris. She’s just a normal person._ She turns back to the mocha, popping off the lid and gulping down the last of it before chucking it into the trash can.

The caffeine has had the intended effect, as Paris’s energy has been replenished, if just by a little. The coffee has a rather unpleasant aftertaste, but, all in all, is not entirely regrettable.

Paris abruptly remembers that she’s supposed to be in a bad mood, a bad mood which returns as she drags herself out the door and throws it shut. She can still hear the conversation that the woman and her date are having though.

“...so sorry I was an entire hour late,” giggles the date. “I thought you said four, I swear!” 

“Don’t worry about it,” assures the original woman, not sounding all that bothered. 

“So what did you even do while you were waiting?”

“I had a muffin, for one. I got bored, so I also had a chat with this high schooler, looked like she was a sophomore...I think she was having a bad day or something.” 

“I would be, too, if I was still a sophomore. Man, sophomore year sucked ass.”

 _Tell me about it,_ thinks Paris. 

“Oh, for sure,” agrees the first woman. And then they both laugh. 

It is at this point that it occurs to Paris that loitering outside the door and listening to their conversation like this is weird even by her standards, so she gets back into her car. She more or less forgets about the couple and goes back to being furious at Rory.

 _I can’t believe I thought she was my friend,_ thinks Paris glumly as she sits in the car, not yet driving. _I’ll never make that mistake again._

Somewhere in the back of Paris’s mind she knows she’s wrong. She _will_ make this same mistake, and many more times, at that, as is the danger of Rory Gilmore. That doesn’t mean she won’t put up a fight. 

Paris doesn’t go to the library that night. Running into Rory had seemed like a one-time thing, but there’s no way Paris is taking her chances. 

***

“Hey, Madeline, I’ve got the notes you wanted,” calls an unsuspecting Rory the next day, speed-walking up to where Madeline, Louise, and Paris are crossing the school grounds. 

“No thanks,” says Madeline coldly. 

Now that there’s a boy involved, Madeline and Louise seem to have finally gotten the memo that the three of them are supposed to hate Rory and are going out of their respective ways to be as cold and unforgiving as they can (Louise pulls this off well, Madeline less so), bless them. 

“No, really,” Rory persists, continuing after Madeline. “These are the ones you asked for. The biology notes from Tuesday. The other day you said you--”

“No thanks,” repeats Madeline sharpy. She doesn’t even look back; Paris has taught them well. 

“But--” Rory protests, falling into step with Louise as Madeline passes them. “What’s wrong with her?” she asks Louise once Madeline has advanced far enough from them that she can’t hear. 

“Nothing’s wrong with her, Mary,” snarks Louise, giving Rory a meaningful look. 

“Mary?” says Rory dubiously. “Oh, no. Not this _Virgin Mary_ thing again.” 

The two of them pass by the lily pond (because of course Chilton has one of those). 

“Not virgin,” Louise corrects as she, too, passes by Rory, setting the scene absolutely flawlessly for Paris to strut up, which she promptly does. 

Paris has been looking forward ever since the other day for the opportunity to tear into Rory, and her anger has worn off enough so that she’s still eager to but trusts herself to do so in the cool, collected manner which she’s worked on perfecting for her entire life (especially after having met Rory). 

Rory turns slowly to Paris, apparently having finally put two and two together to figure out that Paris is upset with her.

“Hello, Paris,” she says cautiously, raising an awkward hand in greeting. “What can I do for you?” 

“I’d like to have a little _chat,”_ says Paris, making eye contact with Rory. _Try me, Gilmore. I can take you._

“Ooo _kay,”_ says Rory, raising her eyebrows. “Paris, I’m getting the impression-- this may seem crazy, but bear with me-- that this particular chat may be a little less than friendly.” 

“Wow.” Paris feigns being impressed, nodding appreciatively at her. “You’d really make quite the detective, Gilmore. I may as well plop a deerstalker on your head and hand you a microscope. See what you can do. Because you’ve really got something going on, otherwise you would have _never_ been able to tell that I’m pissed at you!” She starts the statement with her face a reasonable distance from Rory’s. She does not end it this way.

“Oh, God,” groans Rory. “I thought we were friends.” 

“I did, too. Quite foolishly, might I add.” 

“I thought we were past this...this rivalry thing.”

“We would be if you weren’t such a lying, traitorous backstabber,” says Paris casually. 

“Care to elaborate?”

“Don’t play dumb, Gilmore,” snaps Paris at this, feeling freshly angry now that Rory’s apparently decided to pull her classic _I’m charmingly oblivious_ charade. It’s not gonna work-- not this time. 

“I’m not playing dumb,” Rory insists.

“Liar.” 

“Paris. I’m not a liar.”

“Yes, you _are,”_ disputes Paris, turning to face Rory. She stops, Rory following her lead. 

“Am not,” Rory retaliates. Paris decides to move on, given that they are, at this point, having an argument remarkably similar to one a pair of five year-olds might. 

“So, you’re going out for _The Franklin_?” Paris inquires, though she already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” says Roy carefully, seemingly trying to figure out what Paris is getting at. “What’s it to you?”

“I just wanted to wish you good luck,” Paris says, feigning a polite tone. 

“I don’t need it,” Rory insists, “but thanks anyways.” 

“You’re going to need a letter recommendation from a teacher,” Paris tells her seriously. As though she doesn’t already know.

“Wait, really?” Rory smacks her head mockingly with the base of her palm. “Oh, wait. I have one, Paris. I’m not an idiot.”

“Whatever you say, Gilmore.” Paris shrugs. “At any rate, you’re also going to need the approval of the student editor.”

“I _think_ I can swing it,” says Rory through gritted teeth. 

“I just got appointed for the job,” Paris tells her snarkily. Rory’s face transforms into one of horror.

“Oh,” she says. She does not say anything else. 

“Don’t worry, though,” Paris assures her. “I’ll make sure you get _something_. How about the music beat? You would be perfect for that.”

Rory raises her eyebrows, clearly not believing Paris to actually be considering as much.

“Oh, right.” Paris fakes a pained grimace. “I gave that one to Madeline. Maybe next time.” 

Rory looks about to punch her as she cries, “ _Madeline?_ She has-- what?-- two CDs!” 

“Sometimes life’s not fair,” says Paris. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll get you something to cover. Maybe the re-paving of the sidewalk.”

“You’re horrible.”

“I know.”

“You stole my mother’s clothes.”

“I just permanently borrowed them, Gilmore. There’s a difference.” 

Rory takes a moment to appraise her. “I’d really like to know what this is about,” she says finally.

“It’s about using people for your own sick ends. It’s about making enemies where you should’ve made friends.”

 _“How_ did I make you my enemy?” demands Rory, beginning to grow frustrated with the situation.

“Oh, gee, let’s see,” says Paris mockingly. She then takes her bookbag, pulls out a binder, and hands it to Rory. Her secret weapon (which she’s absolutely not been working on ever since meeting Rory). 

“What’s this?” Rory wants to know.

“Oh, only an itemized list of all of our disagreements.”

This has the intended effect; Rory adopts a facial expression of absolute horror. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. Finally, she squeaks, “well, alright, Hamilton.” 

Because naturally she has a history related quip to match the situation. 

“Aren’t you gonna read it?” Paris shoves the binder further up into Rory’s arms.

“I think I’d really rather we talk this out like, I don’t know, normal people,” says Rory, snapping the binder shut. The look of alarm has yet to leave her face. “Listen. I love itemized lists as much as the next gal, but this seems like a bit...much.” 

_Well, alright then,_ thinks Paris, taking back the binder. It had really been more to intimidate Rory than anything and, as it had successfully done so, Paris is more than happy to hand Rory her ass in a more verbal manner. 

“So you want me to tell you where you became my enemy.”

“Yes.” Rory looks at her expectantly. 

“Well…” And despite the fact that she’s spent a good twenty-four hours thinking about this moment, exactly what she’s going to say and the delivery and how utterly devastated Rory will be, she suddenly can’t think of anything to say. “... _damn_ it!” Paris kicks an unsuspecting wall. Rory flinches. 

“Again. Care to elaborate?” 

Paris regains her composure. Parts of the script she’d more or less memorized are coming back to her, and she takes a stab at it. 

“Well, for one, you made me my enemy by just coming to this _school_ . Chilton is _my_ domain, and anybody who dares to challenge that? Well, it’s unacceptable.”

Rory looks completely unimpressed. “So only you’re allowed to go to Chilton. Makes perfect sense.”

“I wasn’t _done_ yet,” Paris seethes. Rory puts her hands up in defense.

“Okay. Geez. Go on.” 

“I told you I would make your life here a living hell. I _told_ you that and you decided to-- to mess with me anyways.” 

“Mess with you?” Rory crosses her arms.

“Yes.” Paris holds her ground.

“How did I mess with you?”

“Well, you’re a sociopath.” Paris says this as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Rory does a double-take. “Wait-- _what?!”_

“You heard me. You’re a sociopath, or at the very least harbor sociopathic tendencies.”

“Um, no. That’s not-- it’s not even that you’re wrong, more that you’re _so_ wrong-- I’m sorry, _where_ did you come up with that?” 

“It’s like I said. About using people for your own sick ends. Sociopaths charm people for the purpose of manipulating them and completing an agenda of their own. They don’t take how this affects _other_ people into account.” 

“I’ve asked you to elaborate twice now, but I think a third time is warranted here.” 

“Ugh!” Paris slams a foot into the ground, her face now entirely red. “You-- you came here, and you made me _like_ you, and I let my guard down, okay? I admit it. But I’m _not_ going to let it happen again. Just because you-- you have that _effect_ on people doesn’t mean you get to use it for your own gain! You can’t just _waltz on into my life_ and make it out like you’re actually my friend and let me-- I don’t know-- _open up_ to you just so that you can go to a stupid concert with a stupid, _stupid_ boy, because believe me when I say that’s all he is!” 

And she’s doing it again. Somehow, Paris has managed to make Rory pity her right as she’s making her big speech about how that’ll never happen again. “ _Damn_ it!” she says again.

“Paris!” Rory attempts to comfort Paris with a hand to her shoulder, from which Paris instantly jerks away. “ _That’s_ what this is about? It’s a misunderstanding, Par. I’m not going to PJ Harvey. Tristan lied to you. You let _someone_ manipulate you, it just wasn’t me. Promise.” 

“How do I know you’re not lying right now?”

Rory lets out a noise which seems to be half a snort of laughter and half an exasperated scoff. “Paris.”

_“What?”_

“Why would I lie to you?”

This gives Paris a start, and she scrambles for a way to defend herself. Hold her ground. 

“If the main goal here were to get a date with Tristan,” continues Rory, “then I’d have already done that. There would no longer be a point in lying to you. Therefore your logic is flawed.”

“My logic is _not_ flawed,” spits Paris who is, at this point, arguing for the sake of arguing. The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that her logic is, in fact, flawed. This does in no way make her any less angry with Rory. 

“So I’m telling the truth.” Rory says it as a statement rather than a hopeful clarification.

“I--” Paris takes a moment to think about this. 

_“Why,_ Paris, would I even want to go out with Tristan so soon after Dean?” Rory follows up when Paris fails to come up with a response. “You saw how hurt I was. Who the hell do you take me for?”

“Well, maybe you were lying _then_ , too,” Paris disputes, unable to give up in her conquest.

“Paris, I wouldn’t put _that_ much effort into manipulating you. Don’t flatter yourself, because I don’t actually think about you as often as you seem to think I do.” 

Paris is taken aback. “I-- you don’t--” she splutters in a weak defense of sorts. 

“Because believe it or not, _I_ don’t care that much about making _your_ life a living hell.” 

“And yet,” growls Paris. 

“And yet? What did I even _do?_ Don’t you believe me about the PJ Harvey thing?”

“I do,” Paris realizes. It’s true; Tristan is exactly the kind of person to tell a lie like that and feel little to no remorse. 

“So you’re not mad at me anymore?” Rory checks.

“I am,” says Paris.

“Okay, good, because I--” Rory freezes, apparently having just realized what Paris had said. “Wait. What? Why?” 

Paris looks at Rory, because she’s trying to figure out the answer for herself. The revelation that Rory had never agreed to go out with Tristan had, somehow, done nothing to quell her anger. If anything, she’s _more_ angry. The only difference is that now some of that anger is being directed towards Tristan. 

And of course Mrs. Burdiness is in her head, trying to therapize her and prompting even more rage in turn. 

“I don’t-- I don’t know,” says Paris quietly. “Listen, Gilmore, I’ve got to go. Don’t talk to me.” 

She storms off before Rory can reason any more with her, though not for a lack of trying. “Wait!” she calls. 

Once she’s an appropriate ways away, sitting by one of the gargoyles that marks the entrance to the school, Paris sits down on the cold concrete and unzips her backpack.

Paris had always intended to give Rory back the half-full pack of Oreos she’d left behind that time they’d had “lunch” together (Paris uses the term lunch quite loosely in this particular scenario) but, after everything that had happened, she’d never gotten around to it.

Maybe it had been the fact that breaching the topic of the abandoned Oreos would mean breaching the topic of the conversation they’d had that day, which would be entirely awkward for both of them. Maybe it’s because, since that day, Paris had become vaguely aware that Rory had probably left them for her on purpose. Either way, she’s neglected to return them.

She’s been eating them slowly since then. Despite her initial aversion towards pre-packaged sugary snacks, it had actually been sort of nice to have something to look forward to like her daily Oreos, even if it was something small.

Now there are only two left. Paris studies them, holding the box in her lap and using one hand to pull back the blue wrapping as the other hovers over the remaining cookies.

Her initial instinct is just to throw them out. It’s what she would have done immediately after her run-in with Tristan, but she’d forgotten to.

Now, knowing that Rory had never officially done anything wrong, it’s more of a complicated decision. Paris doesn’t know why it has to be, but somehow it is. She could always just eat the Oreos under the guise of them just being Oreos instead of some symbol of her and Rory’s relationship.

Or she could just throw them out, again choosing not to make a big deal out of it. They’re just cookies, after all. 

In her indecision, Paris ends up choosing neither option, instead opting to shut the package once more and zipping them back into her backpack where they’ll probably sit for the rest of eternity. 

***

Ever since Paris has made her anger at Tristan apparent, Madeline and Louise have made it their mission to trash-talk him to hell and back. And while the general sentiment of this is one Paris can definitely get behind, they ran out of good insults a half-hour ago, leaving Paris to fidget with a paperclip.

“I mean,” rants Louise, she and Madeline pressed up against one another on the floor as they flip through an old yearbook, “he wasn’t that hot.”

“He was pretty hot,” Madeline objects.

“Okay, true,” Louise allows, “but he wasn’t, like, _that_ hot.” 

Paris looks down at the now unwound paperclip in her hands, poking one end into her finger to assess the strength of the thing. It’s not very strong, she discovers. 

“Eh…” Madeline makes a face of apparent disagreement. “I mean, he was _pretty_ hot.” She shoots an apologetic glance at Paris. “But, then again, you’re right that he wasn’t _that_ hot. Y’know?”

“I don’t know,” Paris admits, mostly because she really, really doesn’t. “You’ve really got to stop expecting me to understand everything that goes on in your head. If I put my one hundred into the comprehension of how the average teenage girl thinks my life would just be one perpetual migraine.” 

“We’re really quite complicated,” Louise agrees emphatically. “I’ve got layers. Like an onion.” 

“And like an onion, you have a tendency to make me cry when I realize just how limited your intellectual capacity actually is,” Paris jeers, too late in remembering her resolution to be a little nicer to them. 

“I don’t actually think that’s how onions work,” Madeline says with a thoughtful frown. 

“I don’t cook,” Louise dismisses herself from the discussion. 

“Does anybody?” Madeline wonders. “I mean, everyone hires cooks these days.”

“Yeah, dumbass. The _cooks_ cook.” Paris rolls her eyes.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Louise, and from the way she says it Paris can only think that this is a revelation of sorts for her. 

Sometimes it occurs to Paris that Madeline and Louise acting dumb may actually be just that: _acting_. Money alone couldn’t have gotten them into Chilton, so they’re both probably a lot smarter than they let on. Paris just has to wonder why that’s something one would lie about. Ambitious as she is, she can’t quite fathom why either of them wouldn’t want to flaunt their smarts. 

“We were talking about Tristan?” prompts Louise. 

“Oh, yeah. You’re better off without him, girl,” Madeline assures Paris.

“That’s what Rory said,” says Paris. Too late, she realizes that she’s supposed to hate Rory. And she does. _Paris_ knows as much, but if she keeps talking about Rory as a friend Madeline and Louise aren’t going to get it. “I mean. Back before she became a traitorous traitor. Which she always was.” 

“Right,” says Madeline. She doesn’t sound convinced. It makes Paris a little bit nervous. “Hey, look. It’s you in seventh grade.” 

Paris doesn’t have any genuine desire to look at a picture of herself in middle school-- middle school had, after all, been quite miserable-- but it’s not like she has anything better to do, so she abandons the paperclip and gets off of the chair she’d been sitting on, then laying across from Madeline and Louise to look at the picture. 

“You look like somebody kicked your puppy,” says Louise, smirking, as she points to Paris’s photo in the yearbook, spinning it around for her to see. 

This is something Paris can hardly argue with, so she hums in acknowledgement despite having never had a dog. 

“Why so quiet?” Madeline wants to know. 

“Thinking,” says Paris. It’s true, too; sometimes, even if she’s not entirely spaced out, she’s far enough away from reality that it takes a little bit of extra concentration to really focus on anything. 

“What else is new?” jokes Louise. “So, who are you thinking about?” 

This question is what finally jerks Paris back to reality-- just like that, she’s staring at Louise with wide eyes, head lifted. “What do you mean?” 

“You know, girl.” Louise smirks. “There’s a guy. There’s _gotta_ be a guy.”

Paris breathes a sigh of relief. She’s not even sure what she’d been worried about, just that she’s not worrying about it anymore. So that’s good. 

“There’s always a guy.” Madeline points approvingly at Louise. 

“Oh. Uh, yeah,” Paris agrees before she can really consider the question.

“Oooh.” Madeline shoots her a knowing look. “Who is he?”

“Yeah,” Louise chimes in. “Who?”

Paris opens her mouth to snap _nobody!_ when it occurs to her that the only way to get these two to shut up about this remarkably nonexistent guy is to satisfy them with an answer vague enough that Paris can always explain it away later, but specific enough that they don’t keep questioning her. 

“Oh, you know. Just this guy.”

Paris now has both girls’ full attention. They stare, wide-eyed at her, enamored as though she’s a kindergarten teacher reading them a storybook. 

“More,” says Louise. 

“He’s…” Paris fumbles to think of generic traits that could apply to pretty much any guy. “...you know. Sensitive.” She mentally slaps herself. 

“The best ones always are,” says Madeline knowingly after both her and Louise have appropriately swooned. “So, what else? What’s he like?” 

Paris considers. She thinks about the two women from the coffee shop, how easily they’d made conversation. “He’s easy to talk to,” she lies. 

“A hottie?” Louise guesses.

“Er, something like that,” says Paris noncommittally. She wonders if this is enough. Evidently not, as Madeline and Louise are still looking at her entirely too expectantly. 

“Do we know him?” asks Madeline.

“No,” Paris dismisses instantly. “You don’t. He goes to another school.”

This answer seemingly confuses Louise. “So where did you meet?” 

“At one of my parents’ parties,” says Paris.

“A setup,” Madeline concludes. Paris nods, because, while an admittedly rather embarrassing lie, it’s an easy solution and has basically been handed to her on a silver platter.

 _Why am I doing this?_ Paris wonders to herself. It’s not like she has anything to hide; she could, you know, just not have a boyfriend. 

“We should do a double-date,” Louise suggests chipperly. “You and your boy with me and mine.”

“Triple-date,” Madeline amends.

“We’ll see,” says Paris, pretty much instantly regretting having told the tie in the first place. Now she’s going to have to come up with a guy somehow. She doesn’t _have_ a guy. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she adds sharply. “I don’t need you two to scare him off by breathing down his neck and acting like the twins from _The Shining_ and...just generally being your freaky selves.” 

The _The Shining_ reference is admittedly rather weak. Paris mentally scolds herself; if she ever expects to be able to compete with Rory, she needs to learn to hold her own with pop culture references. Fortunately Madeline and Louise don’t seem to care. 

Paris takes a moment to congratulate herself on account of having gotten stuck in such a fantastically horrific lie that she will now either have to feign a breakup with a guy who never existed in the first place or find a guy to fill the role.

A part of her knows that the logical thing to do would be to come clean right now. Tell them that there _is_ no guy. _I was just pulling your leg. I don’t need a boyfriend._ And, while _pulling your leg_ would be quite the glorification of _I lied about having a boyfriend because I felt like it was the only acceptable response to the insistence that there was a guy_ , it would still be less of a blatant lie than what she currently has in mind.

It occurs to Paris that she doesn’t even really _want_ a boyfriend. She had, but ever since Rory’s breakup with that Dean guy it has started to seem like less of an imperative step in the process of pounding her viciously into the ground and making her feel wildly inferior so that she doesn’t have the chance to do the same to Paris. 

Over the past couple of days, Paris’s anger at Rory has been whittled down into frustration. An extremely potent frustration, sure, but the plain fury is gone. At the end of the day, the only thing Rory has _actually_ done wrong (besides setting Paris up with Tristan, but she’s more or less over that) has been getting on her nerves. 

***

“Hey! Paris!” Paris had just been about to get into her car when she sees Rory jogging up to her, her backpack bouncing animatedly behind her.

 _Oh, her,_ thinks Paris rather condescendingly. 

“What do you want?” she demands. “Make it quick.”

“I just wanted to talk to you,” says Rory, stopping in front of Paris’s car. She breathes heavily and her face is red from exertion. Paris has to wonder how seldom she actually runs; the edge of the campus isn’t even that far away. 

“What, when I specifically asked you not to?” Paris shoots back. “Go. You’re going to miss the bus.” 

“I was thinking such a plight could be easily avoided by making it quick like you’ve suggested,” Rory reasons. 

Paris appraises the situation. She can’t really imagine why Rory would want to talk to her after Paris had yelled at her the other day over, well, virtually nothing. But apparently she does. Paris gazes at the asphalt below her as she mutters, “well, you’d better.” 

“I was just wondering if we’re good,” says Rory,

Paris is surprised enough by this answer that she looks up from where she’s gazing at the floor. “Oh,” she says. 

“Well, are we?” Rory raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Because, from what I’ve seen of you, I’m not so sure I want to be on your bad side.”

“You _are_ my bad side,” says Paris. It’s only as the words are coming out of her mouth that she realizes just how true they are. 

“Then there’s really no hope for me.” Rory sighs woefully. “Welp, that’s it. Time to move out of the country. I’ve heard Norway’s nice. Paris, do you think I should go to Norway?” 

Paris considers. She’d once written a research paper on Norway which had, to her surprise, revealed Norway to be the happiest country on Earth (not that she’d discovered as much or anything, she just means to say that she’d read it in a book whilst researching). That sounds nice. Paris momentarily has a vision of her and Rory having fun together in Norway. Skiing or something. _Only if you take me with you,_ she thinks. 

That’s not what she says out loud, only partly because it would entirely defeat the purpose of what Rory is suggesting. What she says out loud is: “Do what you want, Gilmore. See if I care.” 

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go and become one with the axed lions,” says Rory. “Because there’s a lion with an axe on the Norwegian coat of arms,” she clarifies when Paris neglects to respond. 

“I _know_ that!” Paris snaps, her hands balling into fists. “I did a whole damn research paper on Norway and you think I don’t know about the stupid lion?”

“Okay, geez.” Rory backs away in her innocence. “Anyways, you never answered my question. Are we good?”

Paris thinks about this. And thinks, and thinks, because it occurs to her that she’s clueless as to the answer. 

“Depends on your definition of good,” is what she decides to say.

“Whichever definition you want, because I think the bus is about to leave.” Rory spares a nervous glance at the bus which is, in fact, looking like it’s about to leave the station.

“No, you’re the one who asked if we’re good. That’s meaningless unless you had a specific definition in mind.”

“Okay. Good, adjective, referring to two people who can look at each other without one wanting to claw one another to ribbons,” says Rory hurriedly. “That enough?” 

“Yes,” says Paris carefully. “By that definition we’re good.”

“Okay, great. All I wanted to know.” Rory looks rather relieved. 

“Of course,” Paris continues, “by the definition of two people who _like_ each other, however, we’re emphatically not.” 

Rory chooses to ignore this. “One more thing, actually.” 

Paris rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “I thought I told you to make it quick. You’ll miss the bus.”

“Walk with me.” Rory grabs Paris’s wrist and begins dragging her in the direction of the bus. Paris freezes for a moment before quickly yanking her hand away from Rory’s. Rory doesn’t fight it, just keeps walking. Paris follows. _Just because I have nothing better to do,_ she tells herself. 

“So, what else?” 

“I want to know why you were mad at me if it wasn’t about the PJ Harvey thing.”

“Oh. This again.” Paris scowls. “I _told_ you. I don’t know, okay? I hate you. I just do.”

Paris remembers what Madeline and Louise had told her about hot guys. How guys weren’t hot for a specific reason, they just were. Paris figures that it’s similar with Rory. There isn’t a specific reason she hates her. She just does.

“But why?” Rory turns around to face her, looking rather pissed off now. “I didn’t do anything to you!”

“You exist,” Paris disputes. “Apparently that’s enough.” 

There’s a second or two which is just spent with them staring at one another. 

“I didn’t get back together with Dean,” says Rory. “I would’ve. But I realized you were right.”

“Good,” says Paris harshly, and she means it. 

“Yeah, good,” agrees Rory, turning back. 

“I’m usually right,” Paris informs her. “About pretty much everything. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m basically all-knowing.”

“And so humble, too,” Rory deadpans. 

“Yes. Exactly.” 

“I miss him, though,” Rory adds. “Or-- no. This is going to sound awful, but I _don’t_ miss him. I miss everything we did together. I don’t exactly miss him. I mean, I do, because Dean was...well, he was-- _is_ \-- Dean. But I don’t miss him like I thought I would. It’s more like I just miss having a friend to do things like that with. It’s weird.” 

“You do have friends,” Paris points out.

“Yeah, I do,” agrees Rory. They continue walking towards the bus. Paris could go back to her car at any time, but she keeps walking anyways. “It’s just like I completely forget he exists when he’s not with me,” she blurts out. “He just stops _being_. Do you ever feel like that?”

“Yes,” says Paris, because it’s true. It’s just human nature. If you’re the protagonist of your own story and somebody ceases to be even a minor character, they more or less just stop existing. You start thinking about them in the past tense. Because obviously it’s not like they’ve died or ceased to exist or anything-- you just can’t bring yourself to care anymore. 

“It’s just-- I don’t know. He’s just completely gone from my life and it’s weird.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” asks Paris. “We aren’t friends. It doesn’t make sense.”

Rory gives an exhausted huff. “I don’t know, man. It’s just that things have been crazy.”

In the corner of Paris’s eyes, she sees the bus pull away from the bus stop and begin to drive off. “Better run,” she tells Rory with a smirk. 

“What do you--” Rory starts, then following Paris’s gaze. “Oh, no!” she groans, beginning to sprint towards the bus, waving her hands out. But it’s too fast, and soon it’s zoomed out of sight entirely. 

“Ugh,” groans Rory. “How am I ever going to get home now?”

It _does_ occur to Paris to offer her a ride, but, since they’re not friends, she doesn’t. Stars Hollow is way out of her way, anyways. 

“Figure out,” she says instead. 

“Did you seriously think I was going to PJ Harvey?” asks Rory as Paris begins walking back to her car. 

“Yes,” Paris tells her with a stern glare. “Why would I trust you _not_ to?” 

“I haven’t lied to you before.”

 _But that’s not true,_ thinks Paris. Rory claiming she’d rejected Tristan had turned out not to be a lie. But all of the other lies Paris has accused her of still are.

_You’re too good for him._

_Out of his league._

_Part of the reason I like you._

Paris shakes her head as if to clear it of the thoughts. 

“I’ve got to go,” she tells Rory, if simply because she’d promised herself not to let her guard down again.

“But _do_ you?” Rory, evidently more persistent than Paris had originally given her credit for, follows her to her car. 

“Yes.” 

“I heard you have a boyfriend now,” Rory offers, changing the subject. Nothing could have been more effective to get Paris’s attention; until now she’d totally forgotten about her little white lie. “Congrats. I’m sort of surprised you didn’t try to rub it in my face, though.”

“I’m quite kind,” deadpans Paris. 

“I’ve noticed,” says Rory flatly. “So, was I not supposed to know or something? About the boyfriend, I mean.”

“I don’t care,” says Paris evenly, trying to keep a decent poker face. “Why would I care?”

“No reason.” Rory smiles at her, a question which only serves to confuse Paris. She wonders if this is just an attempt at being polite. “So, if you really don’t mind telling me, what’s his name?”

It occurs to Paris that if she gives Rory a name, gives this boy a real identity, it’ll make everything so much more complicated than it needs to be. 

“None of your business,” she tells Rory. 

“Is it Horace?” Rory presses.

“I wouldn’t date a Horace.”

“Why not?” 

“Because that’s an old man name.” 

“Who’s to say you aren’t into old guys?”

This is pretty much the last thing Paris would have expected to come out of Rory’s mouth, and it renders her speechless for a moment. Just a moment, though. “Ew! That’s disgusting, Gilmore. I sure hope you’re not projecting.”

“Just checking, and, for your information, I’m not.” Rory’s smile has turned mischievous. “It occurs to me that I don’t actually know your type.”

“I don’t have a _type_ ,” insists Paris.

“Well, maybe I can judge that for myself if I ever get to meet this guy.”

“Not going to happen, Gilmore.”

“Then how do I know he’s real?”

The way Rory says it, Paris can tell that it’s just a good-natured joke. Rory, given her naivety and tendency to believe the best in people, buys entirely into the lie and is just poking a little fun at her. Paris, in typical Paris fashion, panics anyways.

“He’s real. He’s _really_ real. He’s just none of your business,” Paris growls, her face growing closer to Rory’s in her attempt at intimidation.

“Okay,” says Rory, looking rather alarmed but also slightly amused by this. “It was just a joke, but okay.” 

“If you really don’t believe me,” Paris continues, “then maybe I’ll introduce you two sometime after all. Then you would know that I, for one, am not a liar.”

 _Shit,_ thinks Paris, now acutely aware that getting out of this with her dignity intact will be next to impossible. 

“Maybe,” Rory agrees, and, to Paris’s extreme relief, she doesn’t sound all that excited about the idea. “And, I know I’ve said. But I _really_ didn’t say yes to Tristan. Or lead him on in _any_ way, because he’s disgusting and a jerk and I would never.”

Maybe a week or so ago, Paris’s initial instinct at this would have been to defend Tristan. After he’s been such an asshole lately, however, she doesn’t have the heart. 

“You’re sure?” She lifts her head to meet Rory’s eyes. 

“Yeah,” says Rory, nodding vigorously. “It’s like…” She stumbles for an explanation. 

“Like when girls reject guys and then the guy assumes they’re just playing hard-to-get,” Paris supplies.

Rory nods, smiling appreciatively. “Yeah! Like that.”

“It’s such a jerk move. If she says no and she _means_ no, then you need to leave her the hell alone. If she says no and she means yes she’s indecisive and wasting your time and you shouldn’t be bothered with her in the first place.”

Rory laughs at this, her eyes scrunching up in amusement. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

“Madeline and Louise like playing hard-to-get,” Paris continues, because she likes that Rory had enjoyed her joke. “Then they get so sad when the guy leaves them alone. It’s so fucking stupid. I don’t get it.”

“Me neither,” Rory agrees, “but I guess if it works, it works.”

Paris nods her agreement.

“I think it would work on you,” says Rory after a moment’s consideration, catching Paris off-guard.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Playing hard-to-get,” Rory clarifies. “If somebody tried it on you it would totally work.”

“No it wouldn’t,” disputes Paris reproachfully, leaning against the door of her car defensively. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re so competitive,” Rory explains carefully. “If you thought somebody you liked wasn’t into you it would be your personal mission to get a proposal by the end of the week.”

“When you explain it like _that_ I guess it makes sense,” mutters Paris begrudgingly. 

“Maybe I’ll give it a try sometime,” Rory jokes.

Paris stiffens at this, her face going red and her eyes darting around wildly as she considers what Rory’s just said. If she’d taken a sip of water before hearing this she would have done a spit-take. “Wait-- _what?”_

“Playing hard-to-get,” elaborates Rory. “May try it next time I find someone I want to date. Not soon, since Dean and I weren’t that long ago, but...y’know. Sometime.”

Well, _now_ Paris just feels stupid. It’s just that the way Rory had worded it had sounded very much like she was intending to-- or, at least joking about intending to-- court Paris. Or something. 

“Oh,” says Paris with a bland smile. “Good idea. If you like doing stupid things, at any rate.” 

“What can I say? I get bored easily.” 

“Okay,” says Paris after a moment. Then, abruptly, “welp, I’ve got to go now. Later.” 

Paris, internally appalled at herself for having un-ironically used the word _later_ in place of a proper sendoff, slams the door behind her as she climbs into the front seat seat of her car, a gesture by which Rory looks vaguely puzzled and maybe a little hurt. Although it could just be Paris’s imagination. 

Paris drives away, leaving Rory without any way of getting home. She’ll be fine, though; her grandparents’ house is within walking distance. Or maybe she can call a cab.

Still, Paris feels unaccountably guilty for not having at least offered to drive her to a nearby bus stop or something. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Paris mutters as she drives, because apparently she still hasn’t gotten over her habit of talking to herself. “She’s awful. I hate her. Why would I give her a ride?” 

Even as she asks herself, it occurs to Paris that there are, in fact, many reasons why Paris would give her a ride. These same reasons testify that Rory is not, in fact, awful, and that Paris has no sane justification for hating her as she claims to. 

_One, she forgave me for telling the whole school about her mom and Mr. Medina. Two, she took me to a concert and I had the best night of my life. Three, she told me I could talk to her anytime I wanted. Four, she hasn’t given up on being my friend even though I’ve given her way too many reasons to. Five, she gave me Oreos. Six, she’s actually nice to me. Seven, she’s one of the only real people in this whole damn school._

Because Paris is on Chilton’s debate team, she also decides to come up with a list of reasons why she hadn’t owed Rory a ride.

_One, she smashed my project. Two, she’s going out for the Franklin, and I’m probably going to have to accept her because she’s one of the only decent writers applying. Three, she set me up with Tristan and probably wouldn’t have ever told me. Four, my cousin wanted to go out with her. Five, everyone wants to go out with her. Six, she’s so pretty that it’s fucking annoying. Seven, I trusted her. Eight, I probably still do._

Huh. Really, it’s a close call. Paris will make a pros and cons list when she gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know If this is just a side-effect of this being my first time trying slow-burn but ack is it so much harder than oneshots. Consider me intimidated. If you've made it this far kudos to you because this thing is getting to be obnoxiously long (at least by my oneshot-loving standards). Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed keep an eye out for the next chapter, in which Jamie, despite not showing up canonically for another three years (give or take some) makes a cameo as Paris's fake boyfriend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another chapter of what is essentially just my attempt to keep the Rory/Paris tag alive! I strayed from canon quite a bit for this one, I'm probably going to be doing that more from here on out

The best lies, as any liar worth their salt would know, are based, if loosely, on truths. This is why, when Paris’s mother introduces her to a-- her words-- _charming young man_ at one of the Gellers’ rather insufferable galas, Paris keeps her mouth shut. Usually, she would scare any romantic prospects away with her strong opinions (oh, no! A woman with opinions! Call the authorities) and even stronger ways of wording them, often enhanced with swears, but since her fake boyfriend had supposedly been one of her mother’s setups, it seems logical to choose a boy with whom she’s been set up by her mother to introduce to her friends as _the_ boy. (Because it’s entirely possible that Paris has already promised to bring her nonexistent boyfriend to a party to meet Madeline and Louise.)

The victim is a well-mannered, dark haired boy with a pleasant smile and...well, that’s about it. He doesn’t have very many interesting things going for him. Bland: exactly the kind of guy Paris can mold quite gracefully into the boy who she’d described to Madeline and Louise.

Paris had actually stayed polite enough to score a date with the fellow, a feat for which she feels she deserves some sort of medal. 

She’d had to dance with him at the gala. Not the worst experience she’s ever had, but far from desirable. His hands had been sweaty. It’s a little bit gross just thinking about it. 

The date itself is as bland as the boy who hosts it. They go to an Italian restaurant that’s fancy enough that Paris doesn’t give him the side-eye when he announces where they’re going but that won’t require him to dip _too_ far into his father’s bank account (the flashbacks from her date with Tristan are frequent and intense). 

“So, Jamie,” says Paris once the date is more or less over, leaning an elbow on the table and looming over him in a way that turns a few irritated eyes their way, “you’re boring.” 

Jamie’s face drops comically. “Oh.”

“As such, I’m not interested in going out with you anymore.”

“Okay,” says Jamie, scooting his chair back seemingly in avoidance of her. “A bit presumptuous to assume I was going to ask you out again, but okay. I get it. So I’ll just pay the bill and get out of your wa--”

“Not so fast,” Paris interrupts. 

“I thought you were dismissing me.”

“Not quite,” Paris tells him. “I don’t want to go out with you. That doesn’t mean that I won’t be requiring your services.”

Paris can’t quite figure out why Jamie looks quite as horrified as he does.

“What?” she demands. “Don’t look like that. I’ll pay you and everything.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m just n-not looking for that kind of a relationship,” stammers Jamie, now completely red-faced as he backs away.

“But I haven’t even told you what the services _are_ yet,” Paris protests.

Jamie’s facial expression goes from one of horror to one of confusion. “Well, I hardly think you’re hiring me to paint your deck…” 

“Of course not. I want you to be my fake date,” says Paris as though such a thing should have been entirely obvious. “You know. Introduce you to my friends, let them _ooh_ and _ah_ over you for an hour or so, kiss me on the cheek at the end of the night. A party, too, so maybe you’ll meet somebody new. Just so long as you don’t flirt on the job.”

“Wait,” says Jamie. “So you mean you don’t…”

“Oh, get your mind out of the gutter,” Paris scoffs, having finally deduced what he’d meant. 

Jamie’s face, if possible, goes even redder. 

“So, are you in?” she asks eagerly once it’s become clear that he’s not about to respond. She wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about the matter if not for the fact that this could be the only cure to a peculiar case of the flu only contracted by girls caught without a date on the night of the party. 

“I don’t-- no,” says Jamie. He suddenly looks flustered. Paris senses that he’s trying to find a way of getting the hell out of the restaurant whilst remaining polite. 

“Why not?”

“For one, I’m busy. Plus…” Jamie trails off.

“Plus what?”

“Plus it’s _weird,”_ Jamie finally says. “Why don’t you, just, I don’t know, get a real date? I’m sure you could find someone. Or, even better, you could just tell your friends the truth. They’ll appreciate your honesty.”

“Who are you, Mickey Mouse? Elmo? Some other character from a lame-ass kids’ show that tries to impose their morals on impressionable young children? Life doesn’t work like that, man. Therefore, a boy must be procured. That boy is you.” Paris points a decisive finger in his direction.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” Apparently Jamie still intends to hold his ground, holding his hands firmly out in front of him as a barrier of sorts.

“I would owe you a favor,” Paris presses. “You know. Just in case you ever find yourself in the rather inconvenient position of needing a fake date yourself.”

“That, uh, never happens to me.”

“Hasn’t happened _yet,”_ Paris corrects. “Very different.” 

Jamie opens his mouth to speak, then closing it again. Finally he just says, “what are your rates?”

“Forty dollars an hour,” says Paris instantly; being a rich kid, she has plenty of money to throw around. “I’d probably send you home with a headache or something after the first hour, though.” 

Jamie considers. “That would just make it look like I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Good point,” Paris allows. “Okay, forty dollars total. Although I’m open for negotiation.”

Jamie studies her. “I have money too, you know.”

“Then do it for the fun,” Paris pleads. “A party. Cute girls. Maybe I’d even let you flirt with them if you really have your heart set on it. But every high schooler likes a party, right?”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t either,” says Paris instantly.

“So why are you even going?”

“Long story.”

Jamie takes a moment to consider the offer. He’s finally taking it seriously at the very least. 

“Forty dollars?” he says at last. 

“Yes,” confirms Paris. 

Jamie looks like a man about to make a decision he will very much come to regret later. “Where can I meet you?”

At this Paris has trouble holding back a scheming, maniacal grin. 

***

“So, this is Jamie,” announces Paris with the widest fake smile she can muster, reaching out to grab his hand. Luckily Jamie makes no move to stop her. 

They’d decided to meet at Madeline’s house before the party. Surprisingly, Madeline and Louise don’t have dates. When asked later, they’ll explain that the intention was to pick up the boys along the way, but Paris suspects that one-- if not both-- of them are looking to make some sort of a move on Jamie. Not in a malicious way, because in their minds boys are as disposable as Q-tips, so, theoretically, Paris wouldn’t even mind. Really, they can feel free to have Jamie so long as they don’t do it in a way that makes Paris look bad. 

“I like him,” Madeline declares peppily, the corners of her lips turning in a smile as she studies Jamie.

“Thank you,” says Jamie. The way his voice raises at the end, it almost seems like more of a question than a statement. Paris really can’t blame him for being awkward. 

“You like my skirt?” Madeline wants to know, twirling around in demonstration.

“Girl, _yes,”_ Louise trills. “Sparkly.” She reaches out to touch the fabric which is, in fact, covered in sequins. Madeline giggles. 

“Hideous,” says Paris, managing to hide it with a cough when Jamie’s eyebrows furrow with fear of what he’s gotten himself into. “I mean, fantabulous. Yuck. That word even _tastes_ bad.” 

Fortunately, neither Madeline nor Louise seem to be paying any attention and rather have been evaluating one another’s makeup choices for the past minute, preening like birds. 

Jamie gently pries his hand out of Paris’s as he asks, in a voice quiet enough to be polite but loud enough to break through Madeline and Louise’s girl-talking, “so, are we ready to go?” 

Paris, relieved-- Jamie's hand had, once more, been rather sweaty-- quite agrees: “Yeah. Let’s get going, people. Move it.” 

Just like a two-woman flock of sheep, Madeline and Louise begin obediently towards the door. 

“Your friends are...nice,” says Jamie once the two of them are out of earshot. 

“Oh, you can skip the formalities. You’re here as my _fake_ date, remember? Don’t get any ideas, okay?” Paris snaps, shooting him a stern glare as she follows her friends out the door.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jamie mutters as he walks right after her. 

They get into Madeline’s mother’s obnoxiously fancy sports car-- a Pontiac Firebird-- and drive off. Paris cringes away from Jamie in the backseat. As Madeline and Louise are caught up in an animated conversation (and driving responsibly, or at least Paris should hope) she can feel free to do so without it looking too suspicious. 

The party is being held at Katie Braxton’s parents’ house. Paris isn’t even entirely sure she’s ever heard of this Katie Braxton except for that her parents are rich; of course everybody at Chilton has rich parents, but Katie’s parents are really _really_ rich. At least, that’s the rumor. The rumor is also that they’re both amateur astronomers. 

Pretty much everybody from Chilton is invited and heavily encouraged to bring boys. 

Paris pretty much spaces out for most of the car ride, staring out the window at the gradually accumulating stars in the sky, which is still fairly light out. She’s just thinking about how much daylight they have left when she hears something which convinces her she’s somewhat delusional.

“Look, there’s Rory!” 

Paris couldn’t tell you whether it’s Madeline or Louise who says it, just that she jerks up in her seat like a Jack-in-the-box toy. 

“Wait, _what?”_ she demands, her voice sharp.

“Who’s Rory?” asks Jamie, seeming like he doesn’t quite want to know the answer. 

“My arch-nemesis,” Paris tells him.

“Her bestie,” says Louise at the same time with a shit-eating grin Paris can see in the rearview mirror. 

“Frenemie,” Madeline compromises when Jamie doesn’t seem satisfied with the lack of a definitive answer. 

“I see,” says Jamie, eyes flickering out the window. Paris follows his gaze.

Sure enough, there’s Rory. She’s standing by the door. Every so often she’ll walk over to the doorbell, hesitate, and step back. 

Even though Paris can only really see the back of her head, there’s no doubt in her mind that it’s Rory. That polite yet hesitant manner paired with the conservative outfit she’s wearing, the skirt is so long it’s a wonder she doesn’t trip on it, leaves no room for doubt. 

“She doesn’t have a date,” comments Madeline.

“A lone wolf, that one,” Louise says. 

“Could we stop _fixating_ on her?” Paris snaps. “There’s a party going on and you’re over here spending your time gawking at the demure dame who can’t make it past the damn door.”

“Nice alliteration,” Jamie comments. Paris shoots him a glare. “What?”

Paris doesn’t respond to this, instead swinging the door on her side of the car open and stepping out. Jamie follows suit. Paris wonders whether or not to grab his hand; neither of them want to, and yet it seems like the best way to sell the thing. They end up with their hands dangling hesitantly between them. It’s painfully awkward.

Paris abandons Jamie only to tip-toe up to the door, right behind Rory, and reach out a hand to poke at the doorbell.

Rory jumps, letting out a squeak of alarm before turning to look at Paris.

“Oh! Paris!”

“What?” demands Paris. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and I’m really not _that_ scary.”

“Just surprised, that’s all,” Rory admits, ducking her head down towards the floor. By this point Madeline, Louise, and Jamie are right by them. “Hey, Madeline. Louise. And...I don’t actually believe I’ve met you.”

“Jamie,” says Jamie in quite a gentlemanly manner, holding out a hand for Rory to shake and giving her a wide grin. 

Rory shakes the hand. “Nice to meet you. You don’t go to Chilton, do you?”

“No, he doesn’t,” confirms Madeline. Then, in a vaguely mischievous tone, “He’s here with Paris.” 

Rory’s eyebrows raise for a split second, eyes widening ever so slightly as she flicks her gaze in Paris’s direction, then looking back at Jamie.

“Oh! So nice to meet you,” she tells him. “Paris has told me so much about you. And by that I mean she wouldn’t tell me anything because we’re supposed to be arch-nemeses or something, but you get the gist.” 

“We _are_ arch-nemeses,” Paris insists, crossing her arms defiantly. 

Before Rory can respond, the soft chortling of “Dorks!” comes from behind them. They both whirl around to see Madeline and Louise chuckling at them.

“What?” Rory’s brows furrow in confusion.

“You don’t _ring the doorbell_ at a party,” explains Louise knowledgeably.

“Well, what do _you_ suggest we do?” Rory counters, flustered. 

In response, Madeline shoves past Rory, Paris, and Jamie, grabbing the handle of the door and throwing it grandly open to reveal a raging party on the inside.

Otherwise known as hell on earth.

Paris is beginning to regret this, and, from the way Rory is cowering away from the door, she is, too.

“You know, I’d better--” starts Rory, stealing a glance away from the house. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” chirps Madeline, grabbing her arm and pulling her inside the house and engulfing her in the blue luminescence that seems to be coming from some sort of strobe light. Just as if in a horror movie, Rory holds out a desperate hand as the house swallows her up, Madeline and Louise giggling. 

Paris exchanges a glance with Jamie.

“So, shall we?” Jamie offers a hesitant arm. Paris, rather proud of actually knowing what to do this time, takes it. They finally bite the bullet, following their friends into the loud party. 

It’s been quite a while since Paris has taken the opportunity to intermingle with a bunch of loud, rowdy teenagers in their home environment, and as soon as she takes her first step into the house she remembers why. Scantily clad girls push past her with little more than a giggled _“s’cuse me!”_ after their respective male companions, and loud music blasts from a stereo of sorts. Paris instantly wishes she’d kept better track of her friends.

“Watch where you’re going, nitwit!” she snaps at one guy who bustles past her in a quest for the pool table. 

“Sorry, dude!” he hollers, all the while not even bothering with a backwards glance. 

“Ugh,” groans Paris with an eye-roll.

“Remind me why we’re going to this thing?” Jamie asks of her, sounding rather like he’s holding back laughter. Paris glares at him. 

“Because--” she starts, before remembering that she doesn’t exactly know. Madeline and Louise had suggested it and, not wanting them to suspect that her boyfriend had been entirely made up, Paris had agreed without giving it a second thought. “-- I don’t _know._ Fuck. This is awful.” 

Just then, Jamie’s eyes flicker away from her. Paris follows his gaze to see that he’s looking at a girl. Classic. She’s giving him the eye, too. Paris notices she has dramatically winged eyeliner. Suddenly this whole thing just seems stupid. “Oh, go ahead,” she sighs with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Jamie shoots her a grateful glance before heading off in the direction of the other girl. Paris is now tasked with the mission of finding Madeline and Louise. 

While this takes longer than it reasonably should, Paris still has it accomplished after a good ten minutes. The main problem lies in the fact that the two of them have yet to ditch Rory.

Rory, having always been a bit of a shrinking violet, looks just as uncomfortable as Paris feels. “Paris,” she greets upon noticing her presence. She sounds rather relieved. “Where’s Jamie?”

“Getting drinks,” lies Paris seamlessly. 

“He’ll probably have trouble finding you,” Rory points out in wide-eyed innocence of what’s really going on.

“Oh, let him go on a wild goose chase,” says Louise. “It’ll be good for him.”

“That,” Paris agrees, indicating Louise with a pointed finger. In light of their recent conversation on the stupidity of playing hard-to-get, the corners of Rory’s lips are quirked in amusement, something which Paris chooses to ignore. 

“Why are you here, anyways?” Rory says, quirking her head. Her eyes are narrowed, her mouth half-open in a smirk of sorts as she appraises Paris. “You never socialize.”

“I could say the same of you,” rebuts Paris instantly. “I’m surprised you’re not huddled in the panic room with a teddy bear at the mere thought of a party.”

“I’d be lying to say the thought never crossed my mind,” Rory admits, “but I’d rather this--” she gestures around them “-- than a Jodie Foster deal, so…” 

“What?” Paris typically tries to pretend to recognize Rory’s incessant referencing of pop culture, but she’s disoriented enough by the noise of the party that she’d forgotten to. 

“Nevermind,” Rory says quickly. “It was just...my mom suggested...now that Dean and I are over, socialization. Or something.”

This is quite possibly the least eloquently Paris has ever heard Rory say something.

“I see.” Paris says it crisply, studying Rory. “What book?”

“What book?”

“Yeah, what book,” Paris repeats. “Since you bring a book everywhere.”

“Oh!” Understanding dawns on Rory’s face. “ _A Christmas Carol_. I know it’s summer, but I can never quite get enough of Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“And so you’re going to read at the party.” 

_Hah. Checkmate._

“I’m also going to socialize,” protests Rory, her face falling as she belatedly realizes the trap. “Like I said.”

“Really.” Paris remains unconvinced.

“That was the reason I went to that last party, too,” Rory continues, “but I figured I’d give it another shot. So, back to you. What’s your story?”

For the first time that night, it occurs to Paris that she doesn’t actually have to give Rory a viable answer. Instead, she crosses her arms defiantly. “Can’t I just go to a party for the hell of it? Have a few laughs, drink some questionable punch? Maybe even play Spin The Bottle a little. You don’t know me.”

“Okay,” Rory sighs resignedly. She doesn’t sound as though she buys it, but she also doesn’t sound like she’s in the mood to argue. 

“And-- shit. Madeline and Louise are gone.” Paris looks around wildly for her friends, only to find absolutely no traces of either girl. “The traitors.”

“Guess we’ve just gotta stick together.” Grinning goofily, Rory hooks Paris’s elbow in her own, only for Paris to scowl and retract hers, grateful that the blue light leaves no room for Rory to see the way she’s blushing (why is she blushing?). 

“Ugh. What do you say we reprogram these stupid strobe lights to say _SOS_ in morse code?” suggests Paris with a scowl. 

“Would, but I don’t know how.” Rory grimaces her apology. “Sorry.” 

“Incompetent.” 

They both have to yell with how loud everybody is being. Rory says something, but Paris can’t quite hear.

“ _What?”_ she yells, though it winds up sounding more like a whisper. Volume-wise, at any rate. 

She expects Rory to just talk louder but, instead, she leans in so that her lips are right by Paris’s ear. “The last party wasn’t this insufferable,” she repeats. Paris can make her out perfectly this time, but it still takes her a moment to respond, having been concentrating a little bit more on Rory’s breath against her ear. It’s warm. 

“Oh, yeah,” Paris splutters her agreement. Satisfied, Rory backs away again. Paris can feel a slight relaxation in her spine where it had grown tense just a moment earlier. 

“Hello,” says a voice from a couple of feet away. Paris ignores it, figuring it’s nobody important until Rory taps her on the shoulder.

“Paris!” 

Paris, with a start, turns to see Jamie. “I brought you a soda,” he says, offering her an Italian lemon soda (at least the sodas aren’t French this time) which Paris takes, happy how well this works with her lie. 

“Sorry, Rory,” says Jamie apologetically. “I don’t have one for you. I can go get one if you want.”

“No, thanks,” says Rory all-too graciously. “Very nice of you, though.”

“I like to think I am,” Jamie replies smoothly. 

Rory’s comment about socialization now comes to mind. Had she meant boys? And is Jamie trying to flirt with her? Suddenly filled with an irritation of sorts, Paris grabs Jamie’s forearm and clings to it for dear life. Rory’s studies them, head cocked and brows furrowed.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says at last, moving to walk away. “Nobody likes a third wheel.”

Suddenly Paris is filled with a fiery determination to make her as jealous as is humanly possible: and if she really _does_ like Jamie, then Paris has the perfect means of doing so. 

“No, stay,” she urges, dragging her voice up an octave or two to eliminate the tone of perpetual annoyance with which her company is usually plagued. “You aren’t bothering us. Right, cupcake?” She gives Jamie a look which she hopes says something along the lines of _don’t you dare question me_. He looks slightly disturbed but goes along nonetheless.

“Er, yeah,” Jamie agrees. “Stay with us. I mean, unless you have anywhere else to be…” 

“No, no,” Rory assures them. “I don’t. I just don’t want to, you know, burden you two or anything.’ 

“Oh, you could never,” Paris says. Because of the noise, they’re still talking loudly, so loudly that Paris’s throat hurts. This results in the words sounding bizarrely aggressive. 

“Oh, I’m, uh, pretty sure I could,” Rory shouts back. “So, I’m just going to, uh--” She moves to leave, but a fellow partygoer chooses this moment to smack right into her, eliciting a startled squawk. She’s likely measuring the prospects of making it out of the party alive if she wanders off by herself. “Actually, yeah. If you guys don’t mind…”

“We don’t,” Jamie tells her.

“Then...great.” Rory smiles too widely so that it almost comes out looking more like a cringe and gives them an honest-to-goodness double thumbs up. _Who does that?_ Paris can’t help but wonder. 

Paris looks around the party, cracking open her Italian soda. She doesn’t normally drink soda but, as this seems like it is, as far as sodas go, fairly refined, she decides to make an exception. 

“So, how did you and Jamie meet?” calls Rory over the music.

“What?” Jamie shouts.

“She wants to know how we met or something,” mutters Paris into Jamie’s ear.

“Oh, that,” says Jamie. “How _did_ we meet?” 

“At one of my mother’s parties,” Paris explains.

“You won your mother’s Smarties?” yells a vaguely confused Rory. “I like Smarties.” 

Paris can’t help but snicker at this, as stupid as it is. 

“Let’s get somewhere quieter,” Jamie suggests. As Paris agrees wholeheartedly, the three of them proceed towards a room where the music is a little quieter, the strobe lights a little duller, the teenagers slightly less rowdy.

“That’s better,” sighs Rory. “God. I can actually hear myself think.”

Paris has to agree: while still the complete and utter culmination of all things headache-inducing and obnoxious, it’s quite the improvement.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, nodding a few more times than is strictly necessary. Paris can tell this is painfully awkward for him, and she has to agree. She’s sort of regretting not just saying her _boyfriend_ was out of town and staying home. Who actually cares about whether or not she’s seeing anyone? It’s too late now, though.

Paris busies herself with studying the paintings on the wall while Rory talks to Jamie. She spots a Diebenkorn and a Seurat (impressive). The rest of them are too obscured by those infernal strobe lights to be able to properly identify.

“Paris?” Jamie nudges her side. 

“What?” Paris jolts forward. 

“I was just asking what you were looking at,” Rory supplies.

“Oh,” says Paris a little dumbly. “Diebenkorn.” She points to one of the paintings. 

“I’m going to pretend I know who that is,” Rory decides with a chuckle. “I don’t, uh, know my artists all that well.” 

“I can’t blame you,” Jamie tells her. “It took me years to learn how to identify the art styles of different masters.” 

“Right. Because you...can do that. Cool.”

Paris feels about the same on the matter; it’s one of the few skills she’s never _quite_ been able to polish, despite her parents’ best efforts. 

“I have a passion for the arts,” says Jamie all-too knowledgeably. 

“Oh. My, uh, my grandparents have a lot of paintings.”

“I would love to see them.”

Paris stiffens at this. Are Jamie and Rory seriously about to set the date for him to visit the grandparents? It’s downright infuriating. 

“I think they have a replica of, you know, that one,” Rory continues. “With the person and the chicken?”

“Oh, that one.” Jamie gives her an approving look. “That’s a good one.” 

Paris stands by her earlier assessment that this whole situation is just horribly awkward. 

Jamie has, by this point, detached himself from Paris save for a light grip on her hand, something for which she is secretly grateful as she makes a point of taking his hand and walking with Rory to another part of the party. They turn back quite quickly upon realizing that two of the teenagers have turned this into a makeout hotspot. 

“What do we do?” Rory asks, her voice having taken on a shrill, panicky tone. “Everybody’s either making out or...making out. Pretty much everyone’s making out.” Then she looks at Paris and Jamie with a half disgusted, half deer-in-headlights look and Paris realizes that she and Jamie are probably expected to follow suit with the other partygoers. Almost unconsciously, she tears her hand away from Jamie’s.

Somebody bumps into Paris. Somebody else lets out a bark of laugher that reminds her distinctly of that of a hyena. The strobe lights are still flashing. The music pounds in her ear like the headache it will most likely result in. 

Paris squeezes her eyes shut to block out the light, but spots of blue still plague her vision. She can still hear the music and the shrieking teenagers even when she presses her hands over her ears. 

“Are you okay?” Jamie yells over all of the rest of the noise.

“Yeah,” Paris tells him. “I just need a moment or I’m gonna keel over and die.” She opens her eyes and makes a mad dash for the nearest hallway that seems to be more or less party-free. She doesn’t even care if she pushes past a few people on the way; that’s what everybody else is doing, anyways. 

“Okay,” Rory yells from where she still stands in the Braxtons’ living room. “See you later?” 

Paris ignores her as she walks, having slowed down a little, up an obnoxiously prestigious staircase. It’s an instant relief, being away from all of the noise. Now, instead of hearing the teenagers, she just hears the music. Being woefully uninformed on anything having to do with pop culture, Paris couldn’t tell you what song it is. Admittedly she’s not disliking it too much, but it’s somewhat tainted by the fact that she’s hearing it in this particular scenario. 

Exiting the immediate vicinity of the party does wonders; Paris can finally think clearly. She figures she’ll give the whole _party_ thing another go, but ten minutes or so of rejuvenation certainly won’t go amiss.

Paris is just walking up the stairwell, appreciating the delicate carving which graces the banister and running her hands along the wood when she runs into some boy she vaguely recognizes and his girlfriend passionately kissing about halfway up. Paris feels a surge of annoyance.

“Hey!” she snaps, clapping authoritatively to get their attention. They both whirl around, startled. It may be her imagination, but Paris thinks she hears the wet _smack_ of their mouths pulling apart. Fucking disgusting. “Scram,” she orders, putting on her scary face.

They exchange a glance and begin sheepishly scurrying down the staircase. The boy almost trips, all the while Paris’s watches them with a deadly sort of scowl. 

Paris finishes up one flight, only to be met with another. Of course-- given how rich the Braxtons are, it makes sense that their house is four stories tall.

Paris’s legs are aching by the time she reaches the fourth floor. She’s not entirely sure she’s supposed to be there, and she’s feeling like she could go back to the party without inflicting a minor catastrophe on the other partygoers, so it’s only the aforementioned soreness in her upper thighs which prevents her from doing just this.

Immediately upon advancing towards the fourth story, however, she notices that there’s something different about it. There’s only one room, for one. One big room. A rather plain one at that. The ceiling is a bit strange, too. It almost looks like it’s hinged onto the wall. 

The only decorations are large posters on magazine paper showcasing many different stars and planets, and... _is that a telescope?_

Interested, Paris walks towards it, studying it only to find that it is, indeed, a telescope. A big one at that. What little information Paris has on the Braxtons finally comes back to her and she remembers about the couple’s fascination with astronomy. 

_A home observatory,_ Paris realizes. _Wow. People really like to waste money on shit they don’t strictly need, don’t they?_

One thing doesn’t add up, though, which is the fact that there’s a ceiling. Paris fumbles around for some sort of skylight only to find none. It’s when she sees a small remote control sitting patiently on the wooden stool next to the telescope that she puts two and two together.

It takes a little bit of fidgeting (this is probably rather ill-advised, given that Paris knows next to nothing about remote-control roofs or whatever this even is) but, eventually, Paris manages to slide a portion of the roof up and above the remaining portion of the house through the push of a button, revealing a now starry sky with the moon shining up above.

Paris stares up, fascinated. Even living in a rich family, she’s never seen anything quite like this. It’s windy and she’s cold, but she figures she can enjoy the wonders of the retractable ceiling for a couple minutes more before going back down. She doesn’t dare touch the telescope; she’d be astonished to learn it to cost any less than thirty thousand dollars. And that’s a low estimate. She does take the stool, though. 

Paris is just thinking that the idea of a home observatory might not be so stupid after all when she hears the steady tap of footsteps behind her. She turns around to see Rory, red-cheeked from the exertion of climbing the stairs, smiling bashfully back at her. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, taking one final step forward and hoisting herself up into the big room. “That I’m here, I mean. I was just worried, since you were taking so long. Now I know that was just the stairs, but--” 

“You’re fine,” Paris interrupts. “So long as you don’t bring any strobe lights up here.” 

The joke, which Paris hadn’t considered to be all that funny, makes Rory laugh, a fit of happy giggles. 

“I won’t,” she promises. “What is this place, anyways? Where did the roof go?”

“Retractable,” explains Paris. “Think a convertible car, but instead of a car it’s a house. Think stupid rich people who decided they needed a damn observatory instead of an attic.” 

Rory’s eyes go wide with awe. “Wow, that’s so cool,” she gasps, staring up at the sky. “ _So_ cool! But are you really sure we’re supposed to be up here?”

“I don’t think anyone’s supposed to be anywhere around here,” Paris points out. “The kids never come out to play unless their parents are away, and I seriously doubt that's a coincidence.” 

“True,” Rory acknowledges, “but I think they have _some_ idea what’s going on. They probably just turn a blind eye.” 

Paris gives a grunt of acknowledgement-- a _you’re probably right but over my dead body would those words ever actually come out of my mouth_ \-- sort of grunt. 

“All I know is that my parents would have my head if I tried to pull something like this.” She gestures down the stairwell. 

“So do you know how to use that thing?” asks Rory, pointing. Paris follows her finger and realizes she’s referring to the telescope.

“Yes,” says Paris matter-of-factly. It’s only _sort of_ a lie; in fifth grade her class had taken a field trip to a real observatory and they’d learned how to use all the bells and whistles on the things. That being said, Paris has forgotten the bulk of what she’d learned. “I was just about to set it up, in fact.”

Now _that’s_ a blatant lie: Paris has no interest in astronomy or anything of the sorts. She sometimes says weird things to impress Rory, though, and Paris is certain her brain and mouth don’t connect at _all_ in such situations. 

Rory’s eyes widen again, this time with alarm. “Paris!” she scolds, sounding rather panicked. “You can’t do that! That thing’s expensive. Like, _really_ expensive.”

Somehow, the implication that Paris would _never_ be so rebellious as to use the telescope is what finally compels her to do it, and so she pops the lens cap off.

It takes a bit of fumbling, and Paris isn’t even sure she’s done it correctly-- not that Rory would even realize if something were to be off-- but, eventually, she finds herself looking through the telescope and up at the sky, sitting on the school.

“ _Pa_ ris,” Rory pleads, “you’re making me nervous.”

“Consider it payback,” says Paris, because Rory always makes _her_ nervous. The thing is, she hadn’t actually intended to say it aloud.

“What?”

“Nothing.” 

Rory watches rather apprehensively as Paris pretends to be knowledgeable about what she’s seeing, uttering an _ah_ or an _mhm_ every so often to enforce the illusion.

“Can I have a try?” asks Rory shyly after a couple of minutes, walking slowly towards the telescope.

“I thought you were worried about breaking it, huh Gilmore?” snarks Paris, feeling vaguely proud for having gotten the school’s resident goody two-shoes to indulge in a misdeed. In truth, even Paris herself is feeling a little nervous about the whole thing-- it’s probably at least a little bit illegal-- but there’s no way in hell she’s letting Rory in on as much.

“I can have fun, too,” says Rory in a rather poor impression of boldness. 

Paris considers her options. She can let Rory use the telescope and risk revealing that she knows nothing about astronomy after all or go back to the party. Then she hears the faint hint of music that’s drifted up the staircase and looks at Rory’s adorably anxious _I’m an angel child_ face, complete with the way she’s using one arm to hold up the other, not entirely committed to letting them just dangle carelessly, and suddenly she feels she’d much rather stay up here with Rory. Show her how to break the rules, if just a little.

“Then be my guest,” Paris invites, gesturing towards the object of their interest: the large, white telescope. 

“Can I have the stool?”

Paris now remembers that most telescopes are technically supposed to be used standing. Rory doesn’t have to know that, though. Paris makes a show of thinking about it.

“Hmm. Nah.”

Rory’s nose wrinkles in a childish frown as she crosses her arms. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Stand,” Paris suggests.

“Then can you move?”

“No,” Paris says. “I’m feeling pretty cozy right where I am, actually.”

Rory’s eyes flicker over Paris, the stool, and the telescope, and one corner of her mouth lifts in the smirk of somebody that’s about to do something mischievous. “Alright,” she agrees shortly before walking over to the stool and taking her seat on it. With Paris still there. She’s _sitting on Paris’s lap._

“Wh-- you can’t--” Paris splutters, indignant at the loophole and just generally flustered by the new development. 

“Sorry, is this making you uncomfortable?” Rory turns to look at Paris, which is rather awkward given the height difference as well as the position, and Paris realizes she actually cares about the answer. 

“No,” she insists, crossing her arms defianely (again, a little bit awkwardly given the circumstances). 

Paris, determined not to let Rory see how much this has thrown her off, straightens up so that her face isn’t essentially pressed right into the back of Rory’s neck. This makes Rory lose her balance, and she very nearly falls to the floor with a squeak before Paris, purely out of instinct, wraps an arm around her midriff and hoists her back up.

The thing is, if Paris retrieves her arm _now,_ Rory would fall back down again. Which means they’re basically stuck like this, at least until Rory decides to get back up. 

The close proximity to Rory alone Paris could probably handle. The same goes for the way Rory had seemed to actually care about whether or not it was okay with Paris, and the fact that Paris has her arm wrapped around Rory’s middle and no way of pulling it loose. All of these factors together and Paris is fairly certain she’s about to lose it. 

Paris is busy concentrating on the way blood is pounding through her ears as though she’s holding a seashell to one when she hears somebody say something faintly in the distance. Rory. It’s got to be Rory, given that she’s the only one in the room. 

“Wh-what?”

“So how do you use this thing?” Rory repeats, twisting to look inquisitively at Paris.

“Oh. Just, uh, take the lens and do the thing,” Paris explains oh-so helpfully. Rory studies her.

“You don’t actually know how to use a telescope, do you?” she realizes.

“N-I mean yes, of course I do!” Paris snaps. She really wishes Rory would stop looking at her. She hopes Rory doesn’t notice the fact that her face is undeniably very red right now. Or, even better yet, she hopes her face isn’t as red as it feels like it should be. 

“Okay, I believe you,” Rory assures her quickly. “I don’t even have to. Like I said, this whole thing is probably very illegal and so we should just go back downstairs--”

“No!” Paris cuts her off harshly. She doesn’t want to go back to the party. “No, it’s really not that hard. Just look through the damn lens.” 

“Do I have to look through the _damn_ lens, or can I look through the normal ones?”

“Shut up.” 

Rory leans slowly forward to the telescope, carefully so that Paris doesn’t lose her grip. Taking the lens of the telescope in one hand, she carefully dips down to look through it.

“Wow,” Rory marvels upon finally looking through. “Do you know what I’m looking at?”

Paris doesn’t. _Crap,_ she thinks, and, opening her mouth to say something that sounds logical, her throat goes dry and all she can do is stammer. “I mean-- I don’t-- stars and stuff--”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re no Galieo,” dismisses Rory upon realizing how much trouble Paris is having with the question. 

And just in general. Paris is having a lot of trouble with this whole situation, though, fortunately, Rory _does_ seem oblivious to the bulk of it. 

“Okay. I think I’ve got the gist of it,” Rory announces, pulling back from the telescope and settling back against Paris. “Telescopes are cool and all, but I’d rather look at the stars up there.” She points to the sky.

Paris, seemingly having lost her ability to talk like a normal person, gives a hum of acknowledgement. 

In all of the books Paris has read where a major character dies or is put in a perilous situation, they always choose one thing to focus on in that one moment, the one where time slows down and their life flashes before their eyes. And while Paris logically knows that she’s going to be fine, it still feels like she’s in some sort of perilous situation. If the way her heart is pounding at an alarming rate would is any indication, it would tend to agree.

So what, one might ask, has Paris chosen to fixate on in her moment of panic? The answer to this comes in the form of the smattering of freckles over the back of Rory’s neck, which become visible when Rory throws her hair over a shoulder to avoid it getting caught between Paris’s chin and her back. 

What, Paris has to wonder, would she ever want with the stars in the sky when an infinite number of constellations can be made just over the small expanse of the nape of Rory’s neck? It’s only when Rory jerks back, startled, that Paris realizes that she’s dragging a fingernail over it. 

“Sorry,” Paris blurts, stiffening in her chair. If her face had been burning before, it’s nothing compared to now. 

“No, s’okay,” Rory assures her all too quickly. “Just, uh, caught off guard.”

“Of course,” Paris agrees with an abrupt nod, resolving to keep her hands to herself from now on. 

_Stupid. Stupid!_

Paris takes a moment to tune in to the distant sound of music. There’s some yelling, too.

“I’m glad I’m not down there,” Rory admits, leaning slightly against Paris. Paris, lacking a non-awkward place to put her head, ends up resting it tentatively on her shoulder. 

“Me too,” she agrees. “Gosh. You’d think somebody was out to _get_ them, the way they’re screaming. Of course, they won’t be long if they keep this up.”

Rory laughs at this; Paris can hear it, but she can also feel it beneath the arm that has Rory anchored into place. 

“Paris, can I ask you something?”

Paris stiffens a little, wondering what Rory could possibly have to talk to her about. And yet, Rory’s gentle tone does its job, and Paris finds herself agreeing. “Sure.” 

Rory sucks in a deep breath, a sharp hissing sound in the cool air. Paris is vaguely aware that, were it not for Rory, she’d be freezing right now. “Do you like Jamie?”

Somehow, Paris hadn't been expecting this question. It catches her off guard. “Yes,” she says crisply. “Why? You planning a man-heist, Gilmore?”

“No, no,” Rory assures her quickly. Paris isn’t sure she believes her but, as she’s not even dating Jamie, it’s hardly an issue. “It’s just...you two…”

“Yes?” Paris asks tentatively.

“I know you, Paris, and I know it takes a long time to earn your trust. Hell, I haven’t yet. And you were holding hands with him and stuff, but you seemed…” 

“Spit it out, Gilmore,” huffs Paris. Apparently her charade hadn’t fooled Rory after all, at least not to the point of Rory believing there to be a genuine connection between them.

“Tense,” Rory finishes. “You seemed tense. Like you were trying to force yourself to be with him or something.” 

“I’m always tense,” rebuts Paris. 

“Not always,” Rory insists. 

“Okay, fine. When have I _not_ been tense?” 

Rory doesn’t even take any time to think about it, answering instantly. “At the Bangles concert.”

“That was one time.”

“Sure,” allows Rory, “but it proves my point: you’re not _always_ tense. And you should find somebody you can feel not tense around.”

Now they’re in an argument about whether or not Paris has chemistry with the boyfriend she’s not actually involved with. _Great. Just great._

“Like who?” Paris snaps.

“Like me,” Rory says. She backtracks before Paris even has a chance to flip the hell out over this. “I mean, not me specifically. That would be ridiculous. But somebody... _like_ me.” 

And for a moment, Paris finds herself wondering, _why not Rory specifically?_ Holding one another under the pitch black night sky, it really seems plausible. The two of them against the world could work, would work because Rory understands her. Then reality comes crashing back down: Rory is too female and too straight for any of that. Paris is, too. So, _not_ Rory specifically. Just because two random-ass women in some random-ass coffee shop can make it work, doesn't mean _they_ can. Paris files the thought away as a blip, a passing musing. 

“Just as long as you don’t play hard-to-get,” Paris finds herself quipping. 

Again, Rory laughs. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

 _So, never,_ thinks Paris. Never certainly works for her. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Paris whispers at her. Even though nobody could hear them from up here, it just feels right.

“Unless you want me to hide a body, go for it.”

“I’m not actually dating Jamie,” admits Paris. “I mean, we went on one date. But we broke things off, and now I’m just paying him forty dollars to be here because I told Madeline and Louise I’d bring a boy.” Suddenly the whole situation seems like the most absurd thing in the world, and Paris is giggling. Paris never giggles. “I’m pathetic.” 

“Oh, Paris,” says Rory affectionately. “You didn’t need to do _that_.”

“And yet.” 

“I’m glad,” Rory admits. “I have to admit, seeing you with him ticked me off a little. I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Really? I can tell you _exactly_ why.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You thought that I had a boyfriend and you didn’t,” explains Paris. “You were jealous.” 

“Yeah, I guess I was,” murmurs Rory under her breath.

They sit there for a moment, Rory gazing up at the stars. It’s eerily quiet. It’s nice, calm. At least it is until Paris realizes this means that the music has been cut off. She points this out to Rory.

“Huh.” Rory frowns thoughtfully. “I wonder why. Think the party’s over?”

“We can’t have been up here _that_ long.” 

They don’t have to wait all that long for the answer, as it comes storming up the stairs in the form of a rageful Mrs. Braxton. 

_Fuck._

Actually seeing the woman, Paris realizes that she recognizes her from some of Chilton’s more prestigious charity events. She’s currently wearing a nice navy blue dress, her hair propped into a matter-of-fact updo. 

_“Are you two--”_ Mrs. Braxton splutters, fuming. She’s so angry that she can’t even get the words out.

Paris’s heart speeds up, she freezes as she stares in horror at the woman. _Does she think we’re--_

“ _No!”_ Rory yelps panickedly. 

At the same time, Paris throws out both hands and shoves Rory to the floor next to her with all the force she can muster. Rory lands with a loud _thunk_ in a pile of uncoordinated limbs. It looks quite painful. Paris's legs have fallen asleep where Rory had been crushing them.

“ _\-- messing with my fucking telescope?”_ Mrs. Braxton finishes in a roar, emphasizing the words _my_ and _fucking_.

Paris relaxes instantly; this is, evidently from the way Mrs. Braxton clenches her fists upon seeing it, not the intended effect.

“Yes!” Rory amends in a shout, peeling her face from the linoleum floor. “That’s exactly what we were doing!” 

“Do you have _any_ idea how much these things _cost?”_ Mrs. Braxton howls. “Get _out of my house!”_

Paris wastes no time in getting up from the stool, dashing towards the staircase. Rory, still not up from the floor, has a harder time, tripping in one of her attempts and landing uselessly back down. 

“Do it or I’ll call the cops!” Mrs. Braxton bears her teeth. Paris scurries down the first couple of stairs, looking expectantly at Rory. “ _Get out!”_

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Rory says as she scrabbles towards Paris. They both scurry down the staircase like their lives depend on it.

The fancy-ass spiral staircase is, unfortunately, just as long as Paris remembers from going up. She supposes that just comes with the whole four story mansion thing, but it’s still really irritating. 

Paris has never been much of a runner, and by the time she’s cleared a good quarter of the staircase, her legs are burning. _You’d think with all this money they’d invest in a damn elevator._

She slows down to a speedwalk of sorts, still feeling entirely uninclined to a leisurely pace. 

The thing is, Paris doesn’t like long walks. Especially when she’s by herself, which she is, having passed by Rory a long time ago (it’s Rory’s own fault, what with all that tripping). It leaves a lot of room for thinking. 

What business does she have in an observatory with Rory Gilmore? Sure, Rory hadn’t been in there when she’d originally come up. But Paris had stayed once she’d come, had even enjoyed her company, and that has to mean _something._

Maybe it means that Paris just enjoys Rory’s company. This would be the simple explanation, and the one which is cause for the least panic. The other explanations, which range from Paris having experienced some form of stroke or beginning her transformation into a small town hillbilly, _are_ causes for panic. 

There’s also the possibility that Paris just likes her as a person is also a valid reason for panic, at least in Paris’s mind. She had, after all, promised herself not to let her guard down around Rory again.

There’s another thing: this particular resolution is going vaguely dismally. Paris had, somewhere in the back of her mind, fully expected as much. Knowing this doesn’t particularly help. 

When they get back down to the first floor, the strobe lights are gone. So are most of the refreshment tables. Evidently, the Braxtons had gotten back from some sort of trip sooner than expected to break up the party. Some teens mutter indignantly to each other with ducked heads, though most have already fled the scene. Paris’s lungs ache from the sprint down the stairs to the point where she feels about ready to just topple over. 

_So much for turning a blind eye._

Paris finds Madeline, Louise, and Jamie outside by the car. Madeline and Louise look upset by the new development as they lean dejectedly against the Firebird, Jamie rather relieved. 

“At least this is gonna do a number on Katie’s attitude,” comments Louise. “She thinks she’s so cool.”

“Not anymore,” boasts Madeline. “Hey, what do you think are the odds I can snatch that Todd guy from her?”

“Ehh, I wouldn’t if I were you,” advises Louise with a cringe. “Some things you just don’t mess with.”

“What if I wanna mess with it?” objects Madeline, raising her eyebrows. “I’m a free woman.”

“Tread carefully, girl. It’s all I’m saying.” 

“Fair enough,” says Madeline, shrugging resignedly. She looks a little disappointed, though.

“Jamie,” says Paris, waving him to where she stands. She’s a bit embarrassed by the whole thing, having told Rory the truth about him.

Speaking of Rory, Paris wonders if she’s made it out of the house yet. A glance at the door confirms that she has. She looks how Paris feels: sweat dripping down her forehead, a look of panicked guilt on her face, and her knees look like they’re about to give as she advances towards the edge of the lawn. Paris is just glad she’s made it out; she wouldn’t subject the wrath of an angry Mrs. Braxton on her worst enemy, so she doesn’t intend to. 

A couple seconds later has her already getting into her mother’s Jeep, which she’s borrowed for the night. For anyone else this would deduct from coolness factor, but nobody bats an eye when it’s Rory. _Of course._

“Goodnight, Paris,” she calls as she lifts herself into the car. Paris turns to look at her, only to find her head ducked down, presumably in embarrassment. 

“‘Night,” returns Paris with a mumble. Rory shuts the door, and Paris watches the car drive slowly away before her attention snaps back to Jamie. “Right. Jamie. Follow me.”

Luckily, this is not deemed suspicious by Madeline nor Louise, who have probably concluded that she and Jamie are about to partake in some sort of makeout session. 

The teenagers are still filing out in large batches, though some have seemingly opted to stay behind. Paris hopes for their own safety that they amend this soon. Then again, they haven’t been messing with a telescope well worth tens of thousands of dollars, so maybe they don’t have to watch their backs _quite_ as vigilantly as she and Rory.

Jamie looks like he regrets coming, and, frankly, Paris can hardly blame him. She does, too. So he’s probably looking forward to his forty dollars. This is why Paris is confused when she pulls two twenties out of her pocket and extends them to him, only for him to say, “Keep it.” 

Paris cocks her head at him, caught off guard. 

“I’m sorry. We had a deal. Take the forty dollars.”

Jamie sighs rather exasperatedly as he shoves Paris’s hand back at her. 

“I don’t want your money, Paris. _Keep it.”_

“We had a deal,” says Paris again. She feels her dignity about to crumble beneath her feet and her arm begin to ache from how long she’s been holding it out to Jamie, who looks thoroughly unimpressed by the whole ordeal. 

“Come on, Paris. I didn’t even do anything but sit there for an hour and a half while you were off doing...God knows what with Rory.” 

Paris will later realize that Jamie doesn’t mean what she thinks he means. She should have learned that a good ten minutes earlier, with Rory sprawled across the floor and Mrs. Braxton shouting profanities at them over a telescope. Nobody actually means it like _that_. Unfortunately, the incident hasn’t quite had time to set in, and Paris just sort of stares at Jamie in shock.

“Wh-what are you _implying?”_ she squawks after a moment.

Jamie, seemingly rather alarmed, takes a step back.

“I’m not implying anything other than that I didn’t earn forty dollars tonight, okay? Consider it a favor from a friend.” 

“I don’t _have_ friends,” hisses Paris; this is entirely untrue. She has three friends: Madeline, Louise, and Rory. But _I have no friends_ sounds a lot more intimidating than _I have very few friends_ , so she goes with it. Plus, she’s fairly eager to abandon the _implications_ portion of their conversation. “Take the money.”

“I don’t want you money, Paris.” Jamie pinches the bridge of his nose in his exasperation, tipping his head back slightly, almost as though suffering from a nosebleed. 

“We had a _deal!”_

“I know!” 

“Then _take the money, damn it!”_

Paris, red-faced, makes an attempt to shove the bills into Jamie’s hand. This is hard, given that his fingers have curled into a sort of relaxed fist. 

“This is stupid,” huffs Jamie. “We’ve both got rich parents. Neither of us actually _need_ forty dollars. I told you that when I agreed. So how about you just take the money and go?”

Paris couldn’t tell you why she’s so worked up over this. Maybe it’s the fact that she hates it when people do her favors she can’t return, which has always been part of the reason Rory’s kindness towards her is a little hard to swallow. Perhaps it’s because, without the attached money, their little outing actually _does_ resemble a date, an idea which Paris would really rather not give Jamie. More than anything, though, it’s the idea that Jamie’s doing this because he feels bad for her and Paris absolutely loathes being pitied. Or it’s just been a long night; probably that one. 

Either way, Paris finds herself so angry over Jamie’s whole _taking the high road_ act that she’s actually incapable of speaking for a moment, instead just standing there trembling with rage.

“F-- fine!” she shouts, “I guess I’ll just go and give this money to...him.” Paris points at some random partygoer in a white polo. 

He looks like a bit of a jerk, what with his sunglasses, the square chin, and the blindingly white smile. Paris gets the idea that he’s the kind of guy who never wore braces because his teeth were always just so perfect. 

“Fine by me,” says Jamie. “Do what you want with your money. After all, it is _your money.”_

“He’ll probably use it to...drugs,” Paris presses, ignoring the fact that this guy looks like he’s never gone near a drug in his life. Including the medically sanctioned. 

“Okay,” Jamie says indifferently, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“You wouldn’t rather just buy five candy bars.”

“Candy bars don’t cost eight dollars, Paris.”’

Paris bites the inside of her cheek, annoyed with herself for not having considered things from a mathematical perspective. 

“Fine. _Eight_ candy bars.”

“They don’t cost five, either.”

“Fine. _Twenty.”_

“I don’t need twenty candy bars.”

“Ugh!” Paris stomps a foot into the ground. “You’re so useless!”

“If you want to get rid of your money there’s a bonfire over there,” says Jamie oh-so helpfully, pointing to the aforementioned bonfire.

“I’m never hiring you as my fake date again,” rants Paris.

“It wasn’t all that fun anyways. So, fine,” concludes Jamie. 

Jamie begins walking back to the car. Paris storms after him, red-faced. _How dare he?_

The ride home is spent with Paris turned defiantly away from her fake date, arms crossed as she glowers out the window. Jamie doesn’t seem to mind. Madeline and Louise, seemingly indifferent to the tension between them, happily chatter about who made out with who and whether or not Cute (according to Louise) Spencer is secretly gay. 

“Would you two shut the fuck up?” snaps Paris after she’s heard more than enough of the latter topic. “It’s really none of your business.” 

“We’re just gossiping,” objects Louise. 

“Yeah,” Madeline agrees. “We do it all the time. You do it _with_ us sometimes.” 

Paris’s nose begins to press up against the window.

“Well, stop it.”

Nobody talks for the rest of the drive, Madeline and Louise not wanting to further offend Paris and Paris taking a stance against talking to any of them in her anger towards all three. 

However hard Paris tries to think of something else, the same thing keeps popping back up into her mind, a thought she’d had earlier in the Braxtons’ observatory. When she and Rory had been discussing who would be appropriate dating material for Paris.

_Why not Rory?_

In the moment, Paris had been able to brush off the thought with relative ease. Now that she has little else on her mind, it’s harder. _Much_ harder. Because it’s undeniable that Paris had, if only for a split second, seriously considered the possibility of dating Rory. And that’s...well, it’s _weird_. 

_Really_ weird. 

For the first time, Paris lets herself explore the idea: what if she and Rory _were_ dating? It would be different from their current relationship, that’s for sure. Paris would probably end up driving down to Stars Hollow a lot, since she’s the one with a car out of the two of them. They’d go on ice cream dates, because Paris imagines that Rory probably likes ice cream quite a bit, and they’d watch movies together, because Paris knows Rory likes movies. 

They’d probably also talk about classic literature together. They’d kiss. 

Besides the last part, it actually _doesn’t_ sound all that different from the relationship they have now. Granted, there would be a shit ton more driving involved but, otherwise, it’s all pretty familiar territory. 

Paris is just in the process of figuring out how one would ask Rory Gilmore out on a date when she remembers: she’s not gay. Neither is Rory. This little detail puts a bit of a damper on her planning of their date together, to say the least. 

She continues, though. Because surely all straight girls like to mentally plan out detailed scenarios in which she and her equally straight, equally female best friend are on a date together. 

Paris doesn’t even notice at first when the car jolts to a stop in front of her house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the cliche, a little too convenient looking at the stars chapter! I've always really wanted to write Paris paying Jamie to be her fake boyfriend and he's sorta weirded out but just goes along with it so I'm glad I found a way to incorporate that in here :) thank you so much for staying this long! If anyone reads this chapter it'll be a huge compliment to me, given that this fic is more or less novella length by now. All that to say I appreciate y'all


	5. Chapter 5

“C’mon, Janice!” howls Paris at a rather bewildered Janice, shaking her hammer disapprovingly in the air. “Don’t just stand there!”

The yelling is only partially due to the fact that Paris is ruthless when it comes to keeping her classmates in line. It’s also made necessary by the rumbling of various power tools in the background, which are quite loud and quite obnoxious. 

Paris isn’t entirely sure who initially decided that having high schoolers volunteer to build houses-- houses that people will be expected to _live_ in, no less-- would be a good idea, but if it’s going to help her get into Harvard she sees no reason to question it. 

The whole ordeal is just the slightest bit miserable. For one, it’s deathly hot out. Paris hadn’t even been aware that it _gets_ this hot in Connecticut before now. Evidently, it does. Or maybe hard work just raises the temperature of any given environment by a good twenty degrees.

Oh, and it has recently become apparent that Paris is surrounded by imbeciles. Everybody seems to be there to enjoy some sort of nonexistent social hour as opposed to for any legitimate reasons like college applications. Hell, even that honest-to-goodness goodwill they all seem to flaunt is conveniently absent today. 

Really, Paris shouldn’t have expected anything different from high schoolers. Some of the kids she goes to school with are just such _idiots_. It’s taken far too much dedication to ensure that their mere presence won’t take a significant hit to Paris’s IQ. 

“Duck!” shouts somebody. Paris dips down accordingly, only for a large plank of wood to come crashing down onto the floor right next to her. It splinters into two with an unpleasant _crunch_ that would have been the sound of Paris’s head splitting open if not for her unidentified savior. 

“Oh, whoever put that one in wasn’t even trying,” Paris scoffs, turning to Madeline besides her. Madeline, who has for whatever reason decided that this particular occasion is one which warrants a crop top. Paris supposes that when you’re Madeline every occasion warrants a crop top. Then again, she has yet to crop her Chilton uniform. Paris is rather glad; cropped uniforms would strip the dignity from the entire school and turn them all into the brainless cheerleaders she’s seen in what little TV she’s deigned to watch. Like some sort of apocalypse.

“C’mon, people!” snaps Paris once she can no longer pacify herself with mentally bashing her fellow pupil. “Move! Move! This house isn’t going to build itself!”

“I can’t,” Louise protests, her voice straying into an irritatingly high wine. “I can’t focus with all this noise. I need a quiet environment to work.” 

Admittedly, the racket is throwing Paris off, too. She’s just grateful for the lack of strobe lights. Since the noise consists of nothing beyond that of a couple of jackhammers, she’s willing to push through if it means three or four hours of volunteering on her college application (a reason for which she would agree to nearly anything).

“What are we even supposed to be doing, anyways?” Madeline throws her hands out exasperatedly. “We never got instructions. Hell, we never got a blueprint.” 

“Blueprints are for sissies,” Paris scolds. “Just...I don’t know. Grab a couple of two-by-fours. Hammer something. Choreograph a tap routine on a spare plank of wood.”

She grabs a box of nails and a couple pieces of wood, suddenly determined: she’s going to build a wall. Which is easier said than done, but Paris has worked on building sites before, and it’s really not _that_ hard. The worst part is always putting it up, because then you need _other people_ to help. Paris will cross that bridge when she comes to it. 

“What are you up to?” asks a voice behind Paris, a familiar one. Rory. Of course she couldn’t stay away; she shows up everywhere Paris is without fail like a bad habit. Since Paris isn’t superstitious, she always pins it on Madeline and her kindness towards Rory. It’s especially true in this case, given that Madeline had been the one to make Rory aware of this particular event. 

It’s a little embarrassing, running into her after what had happened last week at the party, them having been chased down a spiral staircase by an angry rich woman and all. Paris had more or less resolved to stay as far away from her as possible without the assistance of a restraining order, but it _is_ nice to see her now that Madeline and Louise have gone sprinting after some guy with a chainsaw (she will be thoroughly surprised if both of them are still in one piece later). 

“Oh. Gilmore.” Paris turns to look at her, stifling an exasperated sigh. Rory is, like Paris, wearing overalls and a hard hat. She’s got a slightly anxious look about her, almost like a young child alone in the big city. Maybe it’s something about the way she holds herself, but Paris suspects that Rory Gilmore does _not_ know her way about a building site.

Of course, it’s always possible that this impression can be attributed to the hammer (if it can even be called that) clutched in her grasp: remarkably, it’s pink. Even more remarkably, it’s fluffy. Like somebody smothered the actual hammerhead in a neon pink pom-pom.

“What the hell is that?” Paris points to the sorry excuse of a hammer. Rory clutches her wrist in her hand, folding her arms self-consciously over her chest as she avoids Paris’s gaze. 

“It’s a hammer,” she mutters. There’s a certain defensiveness to it. 

“Okay, but _is_ it?” 

Rory, in response, peels back some of the pink fluff. Incredibly, the metallic, silvery knub of a hammer pokes out of the end. “I mean, yeah,” she insists. “And dressing it in pretty clothes was my mom’s idea. Not mine.”

Paris snorts in amusement, turning back to her wall. Well, it’s not a wall yet; right now it’s a bunch of wood and some nails. But it’ll turn into a wall with enough dedication. She waits for Rory to leave (out of sight, out of mind, right?). She doesn’t. 

“No, really,” Rory asserts. “One time she made little outfits for all of my liquid paper bottles. There was a cowboy, a firefighter, and possibly an impersonation Elvis in the mix...no, definitely an impersonation Elvis. That one was my favorite.” She looks at Paris expectantly. 

“What’re you waiting for?” Paris scowls frustratedly at Rory upon realizing that they have strayed drastically from the task at hand, this being the construction of a home. She shoos Rory off with the flick of her wrist. “Go. Scram. Skedaddle. Move on to greater heights. Just...go.” 

“Well, I don’t know _where_ to go. Or what to do,” Rory says. “That guy over there?” She points to the supervisor of the event, a man who Paris has to admit _is_ fairly unhelpful. “He taught me _nothing!_ The entire lesson more or less amounted to ‘ _go on, kiddo, and try not to get crushed by any metal beams or stuck in wet concrete!’_ So if you know how to do this at all, please take mercy on me.” She takes a deep breath, having spat out the whole statement at once. 

The reference to metal beam related injuries reminds Paris distinctly of that one scene from _The Outsiders_ and renders her exceptionally glad for the lack of fire on premises (so far). 

“He’s totally right about the wet concrete thing, though,” Paris points out once she’s snapped free from her _The Outsiders_ induced reverie (damn, had that book hurt). “At first, when you hear somebody say _don’t get stuck in wet concrete,_ you assume the person is referring to how hard it would be to get you out. But all it would really take would be a hammer, a chisel, and some dedication. The _real_ danger would be the chemical burns it would leave all over your body. And it would totally dry out your skin.”

Rory pauses, looking considerably dumbfounded.

“I’m going to be a doctor,” says Paris knowledgeably by way of explanation. “A surgeon, to be exact. Or a judge. I-- I haven’t really decided yet.”

“So do I get to help you or not?” asks Rory after a long enough awkward silence has ensued for Paris to deduce that Rory cares neither about the effects of wet concrete on the human body nor about Paris’s plans for when she gets out of Harvard. 

Paris looks from Rory to the wood, then back to Rory again, considering her options. For one, it’s nice to have this kind of power over her, having done this countless times before. On the other hand, Rory is so emphatically Rory. She does weird things to Paris. Weird things to her focus, her headspace. Things that Paris would do best to avoid if she wants to maintain her reputation as an individual equal parts respected and feared.

In the end, it’s the lost puppy look, the way Rory’s eyes dart around anxiously, that does it. Paris sighs a long, heavy sigh.

“Fine. We’re building a wall.”

Rory’s eyes widen in shock, and she gazes down fretfully at the pile of wood as if in fear that it will spontaneously combust. “An entire wall?” 

“What were you expecting to do? Whittle a block of wood into a bust of Abraham Lincoln? Hand out water bottles? Yes, a wall. A whole-ass wall. C’mon, Gilmore, get hammering.”

“Hammering _what?”_

Paris sighs loudly and exaggeratedly as she kneels down towards the wood, considering it. “Okay. Actually, the first thing we have to do is get it cut into the right sizes. Go get us a power saw. I’ll work on measuring.” She pulls a measuring tape from the pocket of her overalls. The things may be dorky, but they’re sure as hell practical. 

“A power saw?” 

“Yeah. A power saw,” confirms Paris, tapping her foot in impatience. “Now get one.” 

“O-okay.” And with that, Rory scuttles off. Paris looks after her. Does she think that the dumb act with the fluffy hammer and the doe eyes and the I’ve-never-touched-a-power-saw-in-my-life expression is charming or something? Because it’s not like it is. At all. It’s not cute, which is why Paris is so disappointed and irritated with herself when she feels a fond smile forming on her lips. 

Rory catches her looking so she yells, “don’t forget to grab an extension cord, too!” as a cover before turning back to the lumber. 

Measuring is one of Paris’s least favorite parts of the building process, right next to the whole having to cooperate with other teenagers thing. Because don’t get her wrong, she loves math, but it becomes about ten times more tedious when paired with other necessary and often laborious tasks. 

The particular wall Paris has chosen to build isn’t the largest in the place, but it’s not the smallest, either. It’ll take a little while to get everything into place, especially burdened with Rory’s help. 

Paris focuses herself wholly on the work, scribbling the measurements down on the skin of her wrist (by some severe lapse in judgement, she has yet to be provided with paper. If this isn’t incompetence on the part of the supervisors, Paris doesn’t know what is). Just as she’s nearly finished, flicking the last line of the number five over her wrist, Rory comes back. She sags under the weight of the power saw she’s produced, an extension cord dragging listlessly behind her. She’s already sweating. 

“Where were you?” Paris demands. “That took _way_ too long.”

“Sorry.” Rory cringes. “Some guy was using it. He let me have it, though. Said he’d just use a normal saw. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted. Pretty nice of him.”

Paris rolls her eyes. Of course all it had taken was for Rory to bat her eyelashes a little for him to give her the stupid power tool. Even more annoyingly, she seems to not realize that the guy hadn't just been exercising kindness: he had been flirting with her by giving her the power saw and flaunting his manliness by assuring her of his ability to work with a manual saw. Paris may be oblivious when it comes to the subject of romance, but she’s anything but dull. Rory, despite her relatively decent intellect, seems ignorant of all this, just as she seems entirely unaware of how obnoxiously pretty she is. 

_Well, at least there’s one perk of having her help out,_ Paris thinks. _The easy acquisition of power saws, not the prettiness._

“Well, alright,” huffs Paris, more than ready to finally get down to business. “Get a chisel, too, will you?”

Rory’s face falls. “I thought we were using the saw,” she protests, making helpless gestures towards the spiked blade at her feet.

“Yeah. We need the chisel, too. Believe it or not, building takes more than one tool.” Paris mockingly smacks herself on the forehead. “What a revelation, right?” 

“Why do _I_ have to get it?” Rory groans, evidently choosing to turn a blind eye to Paris’s excessive snark. 

Paris doesn’t even deign to answer this; it’s pure idiocy that Rory has yet to realize that she can basically get anything she wants with her Disney princess-esque disposition and looks and-- well, everything-- and that people generally appreciate that more than Paris’s tactics of browbeating them until they relinquish their screwdriver or drill bit out of sheer terror. 

Fortunately, Paris has something of a filter, so instead of vocalizing such thoughts she just glares. It seems to get the point across, as Rory promptly dashes away on her quest for a chisel.

Paris works on resigning herself to an afternoon chock full of Rory and her insufferable, mind-numbingly adorable exploits, something which she had been hoping to evade this summer. 

She kneels down on the concrete, grabbing a piece of wood and wielding her measuring tape. She’s already measured how long she needs to cut the wood, so that only leaves actually cutting it. The chisel comes into play later. 

Paris grabs the same sharpie she’d used to scrawl measurements onto her wrist, brows furrowing in annoyance when she realizes that she has to get somebody to hold the other end of the measuring tape to properly mark it. That means Rory. 

So maybe building a whole wall is less of a one woman job than Paris had anticipated. That’s fine. She’s not so conceited that she can’t accept help (not that she would need it if it weren’t for pesky things like retractable measuring tapes). Paris does her best to work with the measuring tape despite its unwillingness to comply. 

She’s nearly gotten it when the end of the damn thing slips off of where Paris has it hooked over the end of the wood, flying towards her at a rather threatening speed and a concerning _schwip!_ sound which would strike fear into the heart of any reasonable person. 

Paris flinches away from it, giving an alarmed squeak. When she opens her eyes Rory is looking down at her, her lips curled into an expression of stifled amusement. Paris’s face begins to burn as she glowers. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” she orders, figuring that maybe she can bully Rory into showing some respect. It works on everybody else, at any rate. 

“I wasn’t,” Rory insists, but it’s rather unconvincing, what with the utterly delighted way her eyes are shining and the light chuckle that escapes from her mouth when she opens it.

“Yes, you were. You were laughing.” Paris points an accusatory finger at her, all the while biting back a fond smile at the sound of her giggles. 

Rory puts her arms in the air, defeated. “Okay, guilty as charged. But I wasn’t laughing _at_ you, I was laughing _with_ you. There’s a difference.”

“Do you see me laughing?” Paris uses the wood to push herself closer to Rory, because everybody knows that the closer you get to somebody’s face the more intimidated they are. It’s a fact of life and has absolutely nothing to do with the desire to move closer to Rory. And, no, Paris _isn’t_ overthinking this, thank you very much. 

Rory neglects to respond to this as she kneels down at her end of the wood. 

“That’s what I thought,” mutters Paris. “You scheming liar.” 

“I’m very sorry. Scandal was never my intention. Pinky swear?” Rory sticks out her pinky for Paris to take. 

Instead of accepting-- Paris doesn’t even know what a pinkie swear _is_ \-- she ducks her head down to escape the glaring sun. The hard hat helps a great deal with blocking it, which is lucky. 

“Shut up and help me measure this thing, please,” Paris begs of her. 

“Lorelai Leigh Gilmore at your service!” Rory chirps. She’s in a remarkably good mood, especially given the circumstances; building a house with a bunch of sweaty teenagers in what feels like billion degree weather is hardly anybody’s idea of a good time. 

Paris uncaps the sharpie and draws it forcefully over the wood where it needs to be cut, glancing at her wrist for confirmation. 

“Next one.”

“I got the chisel,” says Rory conversationally as she holds the measuring tape at the end of the next two-by-something, using the other hand to pull the aforementioned chisel from her overall pocket and waving it brightly in the air. 

“Good,” says Paris sharply. The goal by this point is more or less to just get the wall done without being pulled into any Rory shenanigans. Although, come to think of it, what Paris classifies as Rory’s shenanigans mostly just consist of her having fun. _Still._

Rory seems to get the idea, as she shuts up. They actually work pretty well together. Rory can be a bit clumsy, but once they get a rhythm worked out she’s not half bad as an assistant. Of course, there’s the fact that, after a couple more pieces of wood, she goes back to trying to make conversation.

“How’s your summer been?”

“Fine.”

“Good, good. I’m looking forward to all the movies I’m gonna watch with my mom.” Rory grins contentedly at Paris, who keeps her head down as she runs her finger along the wood, trying to figure out the measurements. “What are you going to do?”

“This,” grunts Paris, using her free hand to gesture towards their surroundings. Rory looks rather surprised.

“You’re gonna spend your whole summer building houses?”

“No, dumbass,” snaps Paris. “Not this specifically. Just volunteering stuff. Frolic through the flowers with some shelter dogs. Have some sort of epic tutoring montague with a fifth grader. Shit like that, the kind of crap I can put on my application for Harvard. I’ve already got most of it lined up.”

She mentally chastises herself for giving Rory an answer longer than one syllable, but she never _could_ deny a chance to brag about what a good student she is. Especially when Rory is the person at the receiving end of the bragging. They move onto another plank, Rory frowning thoughtfully. 

“You know, this is the first I’ve done,” she says. “The first real volunteering thing, I mean.”

This gets Paris’s attention, and she jerks her head up abruptly to look at Rory, a predatory smirk forming over her face.

“Really? It seems like small town kids like you would be all over this stuff.”

“You’d be surprised.” Rory shrugs.

Paris looks back down at the wood. They’re down to the last couple of pieces now. After this, they’ll power saw down on the sharpie lines. 

“Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about you anymore,” Paris announces in a falsely jovial tone (it helps to emphasize the point).

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t competition,” rephrases Paris. “If you don’t do volunteering, then there’s no _way_ you’re getting to Harvard. So I don’t have to worry about you anymore.” She can almost see Rory’s slow descent into panic. It’s not hard to recognize; Paris knows it firsthand. It feels nice to inflict it on somebody else. 

“What do you mean?” she repeats, her voice shrill with hidden hysteria. 

“I mean what I said,” Paris maintains. “Now get out the power saw.” 

Rory obliges, letting go of her end of the measuring tape (this time Paris is ready) and grabbing at the power tool. She tosses one end of the extension cord towards Paris, who goes to plug it in readily. 

“I didn’t know that!” Rory calls after her. “Is it too late to catch up? Or am I just...well, screwed?” 

Paris considers. Realistically, if a good student like Rory were to start extracurriculars _now_ , she would still have a chance at Harvard. But a chance isn’t good enough. Paris, for one, won’t rest until she’s absolutely certain that she’s secured herself a spot in the best school in the country. 

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’d better hustle,” says Paris, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “I’ve been doing this for a _long_ time. I’ve handed out cookies at a childrens’ hospital. Fourth grade. When I was ten, I led a study group. I’ve been a camp counselor. I’ve organized a senior illiteracy program, taught sign language, trained seeing eye dogs…” She trails off. There’s just too much to even remember it all. She’ll consult her list when she gets home. “Anyways, so long as you get on it-- and I mean get on it _fast_ \-- you should be fine.” She gives Rory an amiable pat on the back. 

By this point, Rory looks straight up terrified. Sheet white, like she’s seen a ghost. “B-but,” she protests.

“Yes?” Paris raises her eyebrows pointedly.

“When did you have time to have a life?” 

Paris scoffs at this. “Gilmore, I’ll have a life _after_ I’ve graduated from Harvard. For now? Power saw.” She holds out her hands expectantly.

Rory accordingly plucks the power saw off of the ground and puts it in Paris’s arms. Paris staggers slightly at the weight.

“You’re messing with me,” Rory insists. “There’s no way you’ve done _all that.”_

“And yet.” Paris throws down the power saw decisively, having already plugged it in.

“...But _am_ I screwed?” Rory asks.

“Oh, Rory. Only time will tell.” She says it just a bit too gleefully.

Being able to send Rory into crisis mode has had a far more positive effect than it reasonably should have. Still, Paris can’t quite bring herself to feel bad as she clicks the power saw on. An earsplitting _wrrr_ fills the air, muffled when she drives the blade down on the marked wood. When she’s done, the discarded bit falls down onto the concrete with a _thunk_. 

“Paris, what if this is worthless?” Rory asks. Paris can hardly hear her over the saw, and she wonders for a split second if she’s misheard. She decides she hasn’t.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Chilton. I mean the piles and piles and _piles_ of homework, and the volunteering...what if it’s not worth it?”

Paris goes silent for a moment, shutting off the power saw. With a distorted clunking noise, it shudders to a stop. She turns to look at Rory, staring her right in the eyes.

“So what you mean to say is that my entire life’s work up until this point is worthless?”

“No, no,” backtracks Rory hurriedly. “It’s just...so much angst, and there’s only a chance, the fraction of a chance, that either of us will even get _into_ Harvard. Sometimes it seems ridiculous.”

“Are you saying this to emotionally sabotage me?” snaps Paris, instantly on the alert. There’s anger as she shouts at Rory, and a vague bitterness as she thinks about whether or not she could be right. _Of course she’s not,_ she lectures herself. 

“Because if you are,” she continues, “don’t think I don’t have the means to turn this into a real life edition of _Texas Chainsaw Massacre._ The only difference is that it’ll be a power saw instead of a chainsaw. And not in Texas, and it would only be you, so it would really be more like _Connecticut Power Saw Murder_ . Which really sounds more like a shitty newspaper headline than a horror flick. Anyways. It’s not _my_ fault if you’re too much of a princess to do any real work, so if you wanna abandon ship that’s fine by me. Just don’t act like you aren’t throwing your life away."

Rory looks rather alarmed; admittedly, the reference had been a little much. Paris has never even seen _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ , but she’s heard the name and it hardly takes a genius to guess the plot _._ In truth, she sort of hates horror movies. 

“Okay. Somebody take the power tools away from this chick,” calls Louise from a little ways away. Paris ignores her. 

“I’m not going to stop trying or anything,” Rory mutters. She’s cowered away from Paris a little, probably at least in part due to the _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ comment. 

“You’d better not,” agrees Paris. She shoves the old wood out of the way and holds out a hand for Rory to give her a new one. Rory scrambles for a second before grabbing one and thrusting it towards Paris. 

“Why would I? I mean, I may think all the work is ridiculous-- a waste, even, if I don’t get in-- but I’ve also spent my whole life up to this point working on doing things that’ll help get me into Harvard. Have you seen my billboard? You should see the billboard. If you’d seen the billboard you would know that--” she sucks in a deep breath, having forgotten to breathe through her ranting “-- that anyone who thinks I’m going to give up on my _dream school_ is delusional. But what do _you_ care?” Rory looks at Paris with a distaste of sorts as she shoves the wood under the power saw.

Paris waits until the power saw is on and _wrr_ -ing before answering. 

“If you give up, I’ll have nobody who’s ass I can kick. I mean, there are all the kids at Chilton, but I’ve been kicking _their_ asses my whole life. Yours, on the other hand, is new and enticing.” 

There’s a moment of silence, and when Paris turns to look questioningly at Rory she’s looking vaguely smug. “Paris Eustace Geller, did you or did you not just call my ass enticing?”

“You--” Paris curses under her breath. “You know what I meant, Gilmore.” 

“Yeah, I know what you meant. What you _meant_ is that you take a sick pleasure in smashing my head in like a whack-a-mole whenever I try to strive for academic success.” 

_That sounds about right,_ thinks Paris. She cuts down with the power saw once more, and the wood is sliced into two pieces. Only two more need to be cut. Wordlessly, Rory hands her a new one. _Huh. She learns quickly._

“Yeah. Now you’ve got it,” Paris says. 

“You know, you’re good at that,” comments Rory from where she sits, criss-cross applesauce, watching Paris with a rather amused expression.

“Smashing your head in like a whack-a-mole?”

“No. You _suck_ at that.” And there’s that flash of competitive spirit that’s one of Paris’s favorite things about Rory. “I meant the power saw thing.” 

Paris looks down at the saw, then to Rory, not having expected the compliment. “Well, maybe if you’re right and I get the thin envelope when I apply to Harvard, and then I flunk out of community college, I’ll _need_ my power saw skills.”

“Very funny.” Rory heaves a sigh, fidgeting with the sharpie Paris had been using to mark the wood earlier. “I was just trying to give you a compliment.”

“Well, anyone can use a power saw. It’s just a power saw.” 

“I would beg to differ.” 

“Well, what makes my power-sawing any better than anyone else’s?” 

Rory cocks her head as she considers the question. “I think it’s the confidence,” she says at last.

And Paris just doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything, instead opting to return to her sawing endeavors.

Once she’s finished cutting the wood, she looks back up at Rory. She’s still sitting on the concrete, the Sharpie pinched beneath her fingers as she fidgets with it. A stray lock of hair has fallen from her ponytail and hangs over her forehead. Her head hangs, which adds an emphasis of sorts to the way her eyes are fixed on Paris. 

“We’re done,” Paris enlightens Rory, who makes no response but for a hum of acknowledgement. Still the Sharpie twists between her fingers. She spins it. “We can put away the power saw now,” Paris tries again. She coughs, having inhaled a mouthful of sawdust. 

When she looks back at Rory, she still hasn’t moved except for the marker. It shifts under her fingers in a steady rhythm. 

_I think I’ve broken her,_ Paris realizes, standing. She’s been knelt down for so long that her stiff legs nearly buckle beneath her as she pulls herself to her feet. She peers expectantly at Rory. Once more her efforts go unrewarded.

Finally having had enough, Paris takes a long stride towards Rory, lunging down in front of her and grabbing the marker. Rory’s eyes slowly shift down to her empty hands, her eyelashes flicking down with them. Her hands fall gradually down to her lap. 

“Stand up!” Paris commands, her voice going slightly shrill because she can’t think of the last time she’s seen Rory this quiet. “Or say something. But I know you don’t run on squirrel power, so you can stop acting like the little hamster wheel’s stopped spinning.” 

Something in Rory must finally break her out of her stance. She blinks, her eyes widening briefly as she puts a foot beneath her and drives a shoe into the ground, and finally she’s upright again. Paris lets out a relieved breath, beginning again in her instructions to Rory.

“Okay. So now we’ve got to figure out the layout of the wall. Put all the pieces on the ground. We’ll mark where we need to chisel out an opening so we can fit some of the pieces into each other. It’s hard to use a chisel if you’ve never done it before, but it’s just one of those things where either you’re good at it or you’re not, and if you’re not I’ll know right away. You probably won’t be. I’m a natural-born chiseler, though.”

As she says this, Paris gestures out towards the building material, pointing with the various tools as she explains. 

The thing is, Rory still hasn’t stopped _looking_ at her. Paris has broken eye contact multiple times in order to properly reference the supplies with which they will be constructing their portion of the building, but Rory’s eyes have stayed fixed on her the whole time. Paris raises her eyebrows, takes a step back. 

“What?” 

“You’re so silly,” says Rory. She’s got the smile on her face that means that she knows something Paris doesn’t. The glint in her eyes, the open-mouthed grin. 

Paris digs her toes into the bottoms of her shoes, anchoring herself to the concrete as she tries to avoid locking eyes with Rory, because she’s acting extremely weird. And not even in the way she typically acts weird.

“Okay. I’m a lot of things, but silly is _not_ one of them. I am a...very serious individual. The most serious person to ever lay foot on the planet so, Gilmore, if you ever so much as reference my alleged _silliness_ ever again I’ll--” Paris stops, unsure what it is she’ll do yet unwilling to revive the power saw reference. “I’ll do something, that’s for sure.”

Rory gives a breathy snicker, still bearing the mischievous expression. The thing is, now there’s something else, too. Her smirk has transformed into a new sort of smile, and she has her head cocked ever so slightly.

“But you _are_. We both are.”

“Speak for yourself,” Paris mumbles, now focusing on the nooks and crannies of the concrete beneath her. She’s begun to dig her heels in, too. 

“We’re both very silly,” Rory maintains. “This...this rivalry we have going on. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but it’s very slightly _very_ ridiculous. I mean, who do we even think we are?” 

“Y-you knocked over my project,” says Paris, subconsciously cowering away from Rory. It’s uncharacteristic of her; normally, she _never_ cowers. “On your first day. That’s-- it’s a good enough grounds for a rivalry, in my humble opinion. Of course, you’re perfectly welcome to disagree.”

“We both want the same thing. And we’re both...it’s not entirely realistic, Paris. It’s like buying a lottery ticket. Harvard, I mean. At some point, it’s not about grades or extras. Everyone has _those_. At some point you’ve just got to sit back and hope your number gets called.” 

Paris stiffens. She’s no longer paying attention to the rumbling of the jackhammers in the background. When she speaks, it’s quietly.

“No, it’s _not_ . It’s not a chance. I’m getting into Harvard, _Rory_.” She spits the word Rory like a swear. “Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better about the rejection letter you’ve got coming in three years or so.” 

“Whatever you want to believe is fine, but it’s no reason for us to be arch-nemesis or whatever it is you call us.”

Paris sucks in a deep breath, suddenly feeling like this building site is the mouth of hell or something. Maybe it’s because of the heat, but the pit of dread in her stomach seems to be expanding.

“It’s called survival of the fittest, Gilmore,” she growls. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. The animal that claws and kicks and bites gets a decent lunch, and the animal that doesn’t...well. They _are_ the lunch. You think I want to be lunch?” 

Somehow, throughout this, she’s leaned her face close to Rory’s, to the point where she can feel the heat radiating off of Rory’s face. They may even bump noses, and it’s vaguely uncomfortable, but it’s too late: Paris can’t back away now.

Rory doesn’t seem scared. She doesn’t flinch back. Instead, she does something unexpected in the form of wrapping her fingers around Paris’s wrist.

If her goal had been to get Paris off of her back, she’s certainly succeeded. Paris jumps, pulling instantly away. She tries to grab her hand back, but Rory’s got a firm grip on it. 

“W-what are you _doing?”_ Paris splutters. “Is this some sort of attack? I want my _hand_ back, damn it!” 

Rory ducks her head down with a dejected chuckle. 

“You’re in a weird mood and it’s _scaring_ me,” Paris hisses, her voice raising a couple octaves in her panic. 

“You wouldn’t recognize affection if it smacked you in the face, would you?” says Rory. Her hand goes slack against Paris’s, permission to take it back. Paris doesn’t. “I just-- you _do_ realize that walking the path to Harvard doesn’t mean leaving a pile of corpses in your wake, right?” 

“You don’t know anything,” Paris mutters, ignoring the question.

They’re not as close as before, but they’re still close. Maybe a foot apart, except for where Rory’s hand has wrapped itself around Paris’s. 

“Sometimes, when I’m with you, it feels like I don’t,” Rory agrees.

“You’re talking about how your intellect seems small and puny when compared to my significant one, right?” 

No answer. _Damn it._

Rory looks uncharacteristically serious as she stands there. The only movement besides steady breathing is a slight shift in her feet every so often, her eyes downcast. The part of Paris’s hand Rory has a hold on begins to grow sticky with sweat. Strangely, she doesn’t mind. Rory doesn’t seem to, either.

_You wouldn’t recognize affection if it smacked you in the face, would you?_

“You know what,” Rory sighs after about a minute has passed, “how about we get back to building?” 

Rory’s hand slides off of Paris’s, leaving a shock of cold air in its wake (strange, given how hot it is out). Paris shakes out her hand before using it to wipe at a drop of sweat beading on her forehead. 

“Yeah. Let’s uh, do that.” 

The whole rest of that wall is built purely on body language: pointing, glaring, nodding. They don’t talk to one another, just work. 

It’s almost bizarre how well they work together. Usually, whenever they try to do something like work on a group project, they argue pretty much the whole time. It’s just the nature of their relationship.

This time is different. This time they work in perfect harmony without the burden of language.

Rory looks like she’s in deep thought the whole time. It’s an expression Paris recognizes from when she’s reading a good book or working on a particularly tricky math problem. Slightly furrowed brow, upper lip pressing into the lower one. That vacant look in her eyes. The one that makes Paris want to never interrupt her so that she can look so peaceful and elegant forever. 

Then there’s the mechanical way she moves. When they work on chiseling chunks from the wood, she does it very rhythmically once she’s gotten the hang of it, almost like she’s on autopilot. 

It’s all Paris needs to confirm that Rory is mentally checked out. 

She recognizes the look from having seen it on Rory before, but she also knows what it feels like, her source being that she spends the majority of the morning’s remainder bearing the exact same expression. 

Paris needs to get something figured out, find some way of dealing with this-- this pesky Rory thing, because that’s the only way she can think to describe the whole ordeal.

Ever since Rory had transferred to Chilton, Paris’s life has been thrown into complete disarray. The thing is, it’s not even been entirely bad. Sometimes it’s nice to have a friend like Rory. 

Sometimes it makes Paris so frustrated she just feels like punching the nearest wall (not right now, because currently the nearest wall is the one she’s been slaving over for a good two hours, but generally). 

She’s just never had a friend like Rory before. She’s had friends, sure. Madeline and Louise are hardly sustainable in the long term, but as your average high school cronies, they more than do the job. 

They just don’t connect with her; not like Rory does. They’re sweet, and for whatever reason they seem to genuinely care about Paris, but they lack the one trait she values most: ambition. Madeline and Louise are easily the least ambitious people Paris has ever met. 

Their lack of ambition isn’t even a bad thing. In fact, it’s one of the things Paris secretly admires about them (a short yet notable list). She can only imagine how much easier life must be when one’s as relaxed as Madeline and Louise are, and it’s sort of impossible to be relaxed when you put as much pressure on yourself to do pretty much everything perfectly as Paris does. 

Rory, on the other hand, _does_ have the ambition. It’s something Paris had failed to see the first time they’d met. After all, how could somebody as kind and lighthearted as Rory Gilmore have a single ounce of ambition in her veins?

Then they’d _really_ met and Paris had realized that she had been sorely mistaken on this point. Not only is Rory motivated, it’s like she has some sort of secret, ambitious dark side. It’s just that it only really surfaces if you know how to bring it out of her, and Paris is fairly certain that she does. 

Whereas Paris’s determination is her entire life’s story, written on her face as clearly as if somebody has scrawled it over her forehead in permanent marker like the numbers on her wrist, Rory’s is hidden behind layers upon layers of contentment and gratitude. It’s intriguing. 

How, exactly, is this relevant to their friendship? Well, it’s the ambition that strings them together. The big thing that they have in common, the reason why Paris feels like, sometimes, Rory is the only person in the world that just _gets_ her. And she gets Rory. 

Theoretically, it should be perfect. But nothing is ever that simple. 

First of all, there’s the fact that, having never experienced a friendship like that she seems to have unintentionally developed with Rory, Paris doesn’t know how to maintain it. Hell, she’s not even sure if she _wants_ to. The way Rory’s gotten under her skin isn’t just befuddling, it’s irritating. 

That’s not the main reason she can’t be friends with Rory. It’s a part of it, of course, but Paris’s lid wouldn’t be this violently flipped if it were _just_ that. 

There’s also the feelings. The unwarranted fondness and the unrelenting need to just be close to her, both physically and emotionally. The more Paris tries to ignore it, the more it burrows down and takes root in her mind. Because why, _why_ , does Paris want to kiss her?

There’s always the possibility that Paris wants to kiss Rory simply because she wants to kiss her, but she’s been (quite vigorously) remaining blissfully ignorant to this prospect since she’d first thought of it.

Kissing, Paris reminds herself, isn’t even fun. She’d kissed Tristan and she hadn’t enjoyed it. It had been awkward and uncomfortable. She’d been proud of having been kissed, sure, but that had more or less been the crux of her positive feelings on the matter.

In fact, she’s vaguely disgusted thinking about it. There’s no evolutionary relevance to the burning desire to stick your tongue in somebody else’s mouth, so why is it something generally considered universal? Paris makes a mental note to air this grievance to Madeline and Louise the next time she’s talking to them and the topic of making out with boys comes up (it shouldn’t take all that long).

Again, Paris finds herself thinking about the fact that dating Rory wouldn’t be impossible. The random coffee shop woman, whom Paris is fairly certain she will never see again (she’s not sure if she’d even recognize her if they ran into one another again, in all honesty) had seemed pretty happy with _her_ woman.

It’s around here that Paris forces herself to mentally recite the first hundred and forty-five digits of pi to stop herself from thinking about Rory.

It works, if not _quite_ as well as Paris had been hoping. 

Eventually, Paris _does_ stop thinking about her feelings for Rory. How does this occur? Well, it happens right around the time Rory blurts out the following, breaking their hour-long silence:

“So, my mom and Ma-- Mr. Medina are getting married.” 

Paris does a double take at this, nearly choking on the air in her mouth. She stops hammering in her tracks, the hammer going slack in her grasp.

“I’m sorry, _what?”_

Rory stares blankly at Paris. She, unlike Paris, has not opted to neglect her hammering duties, though now it seems less like she’s hammering at the nails and more politely tapping.

“I said that my mom and Mr. Medina are getting married,” she repeats all too patiently. She says it so casually, too. It’s utterly mind-boggling. 

“Wow,” says Paris incredulously once she’s regained the ability to speak. “Just-- wow. He pulled out the diamond that quickly?”

Rory nods, now having given up on her hammering exploits completely. The hammer lays, abandoned, on the wood.

Paris shakes her head in disbelief. It’s crazy how quickly people get married sometimes. Like they’re just dying to give their lives away to some man or woman, cling onto them until death. It’s not like they’re monotonous creatures, either; the sheer amount of cheating people do is enough to prove as much.

Paris tries to think of something decent to say. Ultimately, she fails, and the next thing to come out of her mouth is one which she will come to regret. 

“You know forty percent of marriages end in divorce, right?”

It’s Rory’s turn to look incredulous as she stares, wide-eyed, at Paris. 

“I’m sorry-- did my ears deceive me, or did you just have the audacity-- did you actually _say_ that?”

“Sorry,” Paris mutters, cheeks flushing as she ducks her head down to focus on building. They’re nearly finished, and it’s only taken about half as long as if Paris had taken the job on for herself. Maybe teamwork is less lame than she’d thought.

“You know what?” Rory sucks in a deep breath as she, too, turns back to the job at hand. One more nail each and they’ll be finished. “It’s fine. I don’t know what I expected from you.”

The strange part is that she really _doesn’t_ seem angry. A little stressed, sure, but Paris figures that’s normal for a teenage girl whose mother is about to marry her teacher. 

“Sorry,” Paris says again. 

“Don’t be. You’re honest. I like that about you. Not that it doesn’t make you a pain in the neck at times...but I appreciate it.” 

Paris drives the last nail into her portion of the wall. Rory is still working on hers. 

“I think you may be the first person who’s said that to me.” 

“But, seriously. What are your thoughts?”

Paris swipes another bead of sweat from her forehead. It’s so hot out it feels like she’s just going to drop dead at any moment.

“Thoughts on what?” 

“Thoughts on my mom and Max getting married.”

 _She calls him Max,_ thinks Paris, trying to keep the horrified grimace off of her face just thinking about this.

“I think that marriage-- not _their_ marriage specifically, just marriage in general-- is bullshit. But hell if I’m going to stop them. I mean, it’s not my life.” 

Rory puts down her hammer once more, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them before addressing Paris again.

“I take it you’re never getting married, then?”

Paris considers it. If you’d asked her maybe a year ago, her answer would have been _hell_ no. But she’s already been pulled into the societal convention of dating, and she’s probably going to be expected to pick a life partner at _some_ point, however ridiculous the idea may be.

She can’t just keep brooding over whatever it is she feels for Rory, anyways.

“I mean, probably at _some_ point,” Paris admits. “You sort of have to.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, we do. It’s what’s expected of us women.” Paris shrugs. “Sad, but true. I’ll probably end up married to some douche with millions in the bank, to whom my _mother_ will probably have introduced me. We’ll have kids, hire a nanny, get a divorce, and everybody will be bitter and sad, but that’s just how it works.”

Rory studies her, eyebrows raised. “Your parents have a lot to answer for,” she says eventually.

Paris snorts, amused. “Tell me about it.” 

“But anyways. What if you find somebody who you actually like? Then you can marry him and have kids if you _want_ , but you don’t have to-- heck, you don’t even have to marry him, he doesn’t even have to exist, I’m just talking theoretically-- and you like him?”

“I just can’t imagine that,” Paris admits. “It seems so surreal, that I would ever feel the need to hunker down in some mansion with a home observatory for an attic--” she sees Rory smile slightly at this “-- and bake a pie.” 

“Like Donna Reed,” supplies Rory, and she looks a little bit nostalgic for a moment. Paris isn’t even going to ask.

“Yeah. Like Donna Reed. What about you?”

“Me?” Rory puts a questioning hand over her chest, as though there’s anybody else to whom Paris could possibly be referring to.

“Yeah. Do you want to get married or anything when you’re older?” 

Rory’s gaze goes blank, and she seems to once more be in an entirely different place when she snaps back to the present to answer.

“Mhm. I mean, my career and college are first priority. But if I can, you know, become financially stable and find somebody who doesn’t mind my having to travel all over the place for journalism gigs, it would be nice.” 

Paris nods conversationally, feeling a vague sort of bitterness sprout in her chest as she thinks of Rory’s life with whatever guy she chooses. She thinks about the wedding. Lorelai would be her maid of honor, obviously; if not, it would be Lane. 

The cake. Rory seems to care more about food than anything else, so she probably won’t spare any expenses when it comes to choosing the perfect cake. Of course, when the time comes to actually _eat_ it she’ll do so as gracelessly as a five-year-old on their birthday.

Paris shakes her head as if to clear it of any thoughts of Rory’s potential wedding cakes, the bitterness already having spread to her gut. They’re only sixteen, after all. They’re both silent for a moment, gazing over the wall and considering one another.

“So, enough about us. Thoughts about your mom’s wedding?” asks Paris, because as much as she hates talking about peoples’ feelings Rory wouldn’t have brought up her mother’s engagement to Mr. Medina without the intention to rant about it.

Rory still seems rather surprised, her chin jerking up as she hears it. “About my mom getting married to Max?”

“No, about Chris Evans getting married to...whatever her name is. _Yes,_ dumbass, your mom and Ma--” Nope, calling him Max is just too weird. Especially in this context. “-- Sorry. Can’t. Mr. Medina.” 

“Oh. Well, I’m just glad she’s happy,” says Rory, running a hand over one of the pieces of wood she’s hunched over. “You know. Since she and Max like each other, they’re getting married. It makes sense. There were daisies and everything.” 

“Daisies?”

“He got her a thousand yellow daisies.”

Paris very nearly wretches at this. It’s just so disgustingly cliché.. “Ugh. One of the reasons I’ve never wanted to get married.” 

“I think it was sweet.” 

Paris tries to imagine her English teacher kneeled in front of a thousand yellow daisies, probably in a suit. The image just doesn’t compute. The whole idea of him and Rory’s mother just feels so bizarre and surreal, like it’s never _actually_ going to happen. 

“Do you think they’ll last?”

“I sure hope so.” Rory glances down at the ground, and the answer is easily translated: _probably not_. If that’s what Rory thinks then she’s probably right. 

“Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Rory admits, “but I guess only they get to decide that.”

“You get to decide, too, you just have to keep your mouth shut about it.” 

“So, how about we go take a lunch break?” Rory suggests, standing from where she had been hunched over. “We can get the wall up when we’re done, then I’ll probably leave. We’ve been here for a while, and I need to get home so I can sign up for more volunteering.”

Paris can’t help but feel a little cocky that she’s freaked Rory out over the whole extracurricular thing.

“I thought you said that it was-- and I quote-- ridiculous.”

“And then I said that I wasn’t going to stop trying, because Harvard is what I’ve been working towards for my whole life. So, there.”

“Okay,” Paris agrees. 

“But I have a proposal.” She giggles dejectedly, pinching at the bridge of her nose as she adds, “not the kind Mr. Medina gave my mother. Ugh.” 

Paris clambers over their newly constructed wall (the skeleton of a wall, really) so she can hear Rory more clearly over the jackhammers.

“Oh?”

“I want a truce,” explains Rory. “I was thinking today, and I thought that bringing each other down isn’t going to help with anything. We should work together. And be friends...if you want that.” 

Paris feels her heart speed up as she scrutinizes Rory, head cocked. 

_No, you really shouldn’t do tha--_

“Sure.” Paris mentally slaps herself. “Although, if you can’t handle the heat, you should really get out of the kitchen.” Rory giggles once more as Paris attacks her with a playful shove.

“I’ll get out of the kitchen when Gordon Ramsay gets out of the kitchen,” Rory scoffs. “But I’m glad you’re on board.” 

They begin to walk together towards a folding table near the building site where most of the volunteers have been relaxing for a good half hour now. Rory grabs her backpack, opening it up and fumbling for something in one of the pockets.

“Not more Oreos?” Paris finds herself teasing.

“Not this time,” says Rory. “I just brought a sandwich.”

Sure enough, when she pulls a hand from her backpack, it clutches a sandwich. Ham and cheese on sourdough, as far as Paris can tell. She also produces a bag of barbeque chips. It looks good.

“I was just going to buy a boxed salad later,” Paris admits. “From the grocery store,” she clarifies when Rory whirls her head around to look at her, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a confused frown.

“Salad? Really?” 

“Yes. Ever heard of it?” Paris snarks.

“Briefly,” says Rory once she’s taken a second to mock thought. “Want some chips?” She pulls another serving sized bag of potato chips from her backpack. “These ones are dijon mustard.”

“You brought two bags of chips?” Paris sighs. “Why is that a surprise?”

They settle a little ways away from the rest of the group, sitting. Paris snacks on her chips as Rory enthusiastically shoves the sandwich into her mouth. Paris is sort of surprised she’d even bothered to make a sandwich. She really wouldn’t have put it past her to bring an Uncrustable and call it a day.

“There was a second part of the proposition too,” says Rory once she’s swallowed a large bite of her lunch.

“Oh?”

“I was thinking we could hang out a little this summer. In the ‘Hollow-- we never actually call it that, that was just me trying something and it didn’t really work so, uh, ignore that-- there’s this summer festival we have every year. And there’s a lot going on this year, what with the wedding preparations--” she cringes “-- and all that, but I thought you could come down for that. If it’s not out of the way, anyways. If it is I could just come up here and see you sometime before Friday Night Dinner. Or we could, y’know, not do that if you’re already regretting your decision for us to be friends or anything like that.”

Paris derives a strange pleasure from the way Rory seems so nervous about the request. It’s in the way she talks too quickly, bordering on stammering. Maybe it’s why she doesn't outwardly reject the offer.

“Maybe. I mean, it depends on whether or not I have something going on that day.”

 _You idiot,_ Paris lectures herself; after all, she had only just been thinking about the benefits which could be reaped from cutting ties with Rory.

“Great,” says Rory in a rush. “I mean, great.” She repeats herself more slowly.

“When is it?” Paris asks.

“Not until August, so I’m giving quite a bit of advanced notice, mind you. And it goes on for an entire week, but it would be best if we could do it that Thursday. Because then you could come to the town meeting, and those are always a hoot.”

“A hoot?” Paris scoffs. “Did you seriously just say that?"

Rory ignores this. “The town meetings can also be...sort of a lot, so if you want to avoid that it’s totally understandable.” 

“You’re really planning ahead,” Paris notes.

“Yeah, well, that’s just, you know, it’s what I do. Plan ahead. They don’t call me Rory Planning Ahead Gilmore for nothing.”

“I don’t think they call you that.”

“W-well, they should.” 

Paris finishes with the last of her chips, the slightly acidic taste resonating in her mouth, so she stuffs the empty bag into the pocket of her overalls. Rory has already eaten the first half of her sandwich and is currently working on the second. 

“I don’t think that would catch on,” Paris tells her. “Nicknames are only cool if they catch on. If they don’t they’re very, very pathetic.”

“Rory caught on,” says Rory a little bit too proudly, her back straightening up. Then she sags down again, burying her face in her hand with a muffled grin. “Oh _God,_ I can’t believe my mother is marrying my teacher.”

Not entirely sure what to do, Paris winds up taking a hand and stiffly patting Rory’s exposed back between her shoulder blades. 

“It happens to the best of us,” chimes in Louise, as she and Madeline are now strolling towards them, something which Paris had failed to notice before now. She thinks with a hint of disgust that they’re probably only here because they smelled drama on the wind. 

“Hi, Louise,” Rory greets, jerking her head up slightly. She runs a hand through her hair and sits up straight. Paris offers her an apologetic grimace.

“Madeline’s here, too,” whiles Madeline, pushing herself in between Paris and Rory and taking a seat.

“ _Madeline_ ,” grunts Paris, vaguely annoyed by having her Rory access blocked but appreciative for the same reason, “needs to stop referring to herself in the third person.” 

Madeline just shrugs. “Paris should try it,” she advises. 

Soon afterwards, once the wall has been put into place (this had taken some immense effort on both of their parts), Rory’s mother arrives in her Jeep, looking cheery in a way only Rory’s mother can, and Rory reverts back to her bright, smiley self, making far too many quips. Paris looks at her and finds once more that she really just can’t imagine it, her with Mr. Medina. 

She can _imagine_ it, alright, thanks in no small part to the Parent’s Night incident. She just can’t imagine that they would ever be sustainable, or that Mr. Medina would be the kind of guy to irresponsibly marry like this. 

Not for the first time, it occurs to Paris that the Gilmore family is, like her own, flawed. Just in an entirely different way. 

Paris and Rory, it seems, have a lot in common. The main difference is that, on the surface, all of their similarities appear to be anything but-- until you dig deeper, everything they have in common masquerades as a drastic contrast. 

The more Paris thinks about their relationship, the more complex it seems to be, and while there’s always the possibility that she’s just overanalyzing things, she’s fairly confident that that’s not the case.

Paris finds herself increasingly eager to visit Stars Hollow in August and finally fill in the blanks about what kind of a life Rory lives. 

Then it occurs to her that the whole idea has rather date-like subtext, an idea which she instantly tries to dismiss. But it worms its way into her head and suddenly it’s all Paris can think about; to hell with Madeline and Louise’s conversation about boob implants. 

Obviously it’s not a date. Rory would never go on a date with Paris. This does not do away with the subtext, annoyingly enough.

There’s the fact that Rory has invited her to her hometown that comes across as very slightly date-like. Almost like a meet the parents sort of thing, although Paris has already met Lorelai and, even if they _were_ dating, the very idea of which is utterly ludicrous, it would be far too early for a meet the parents date.

Still. Rory used to have this weird thing where she hated the very idea of anybody from Chilton setting a single toe on Stars Hollow ground, which Paris supposes is part of the reason why the whole Mr. Medina thing is so bizarre.

It seems as though Rory has entirely dismissed such a resolution, seeing as she has not only invited Paris to Stars Hollow, but has done so with no pretense of it being for any sort of educational purpose and she has specifically requested that Paris come on a day which will allow her to meet as much of the town as possible.

Rory’s not the type of person to have, as people seem to put it, walls. She doesn’t, really. It seems as though Paris has just broken past an important one nonetheless. 

(Yes, Paris can appreciate the irony that this has occurred on the day during which Rory had assisted her in building an actual, literal wall.)

Paris realizes that she’s excited to go to Stars Hollow. Of course, she’s also, rather inexplicably, stressing out about whether or not she’ll make a good impression on Rory’s mother and all of her friends. It’s stupid because it’s not even _happening_ for another month and Paris is already overthinking it. 

“...I don’t think I will,” says Madeline once Paris has more or less tuned back into reality. “I mean, there’s a certain stigma that comes with cosmetic surgeries and, don’t get me wrong, I hate conforming to the will of society, but it really seems like more effort than it’s worth.”

“You do you, girl,” says Louise, “but as soon as I get out of college I’m _so_ going to get something done. I’m not sure what yet, though. Maybe a nose job.”

“If you’re going to get something done you should do it _during_ college,” Madeline points out. “College is sort of high time for flirting and courtship.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. 

“College boys,” sighs Louise longingly. “God. I can’t wait until I’m in college.” This is something with which Paris can greatly sympathize. 

“I can’t wait until I go to Harvard,” Paris agrees. 

“Does Harvard have good boys?” Madeline asks with a vague interest.

“Do I look like I care?”

“Or we could just not even go to college,” Madeline suggests. “Then I don’t even have to worry about it.”

“Now _there’s_ an idea,” says Louise with a grin. “Although, I’ve heard college guys are the cutest.” 

“Maybe I’ll get into a party school and purposefully flunk out.”

“Any college _you_ get into will be next to impossible to flunk out of,” Paris grunts, all the while vaguely stunned by the conversation as a whole. _How do these two live with themselves?_

“That’s a good point,” Louise admits. “I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.” 

And this is the perfect example of why, while Madeline and Louise are nice people, Paris just can’t connect with them whatsoever. They have the kind of conversations that make Paris stop and wonder over the fact that she’s deliberately participating in them in the first place. It’s also how Rory is different. Rory cares about boys significantly more than Paris, as much as she loathes to admit it even to herself, probably ever will. But she also cares about boys significantly _less_ than Madeline and Louise, and that’s friend material Paris can get behind so long as she can stop letting Rory make her feel the way she always seems to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people! Thanks for reading my latest chapter. This chapter is more or less just designed to bridge into the next one, which I'm really excited for! Things actually starts happening. As somebody who's never written slowburn before, I underestimated how rewarding it would be to finally get to the good stuff. I should stop spoiling my own story. Aaanyways. Thank you for all the nice comments, I got an especially sweet one on the last chapter so thanks everyone for reading my story and showing your support :) have a nice Christmas (if you celebrate) and I'll see you next chapter! Let me know if you spot any typos


	6. Chapter 6

By the time August arrives, Paris has not mentally talked herself out of going to the Stars Hollow summer festival. Anybody who knows her could tell you that this is a small miracle. 

Paris works out the fine details with Rory on Wednesday night after her nanny has given her an adequate pep-talk. Paris can appreciate this; it takes quite the woman to be able to give an effective pep-talk whilst being trounced at _Monopoly_. She remembers the conversation well. 

“I mean, what if she was just inviting me to be nice?” Paris had moved the tiny car five spaces on the board. “Hell yeah, Park Place! In your face, Nanny,” she boasts, saying it all in Portugese.

Since Paris had purchased Boardwalk earlier in the game, she’d more or less won the game by that point but was more than happy to continue nonetheless. 

“Language, child,” Nanny had warned, giving Paris her all-too-effective stink eye as she threw the dice, vaulting herself to her doom in the form of Baltic Avenue with a hotel. She began to flip a select few property cards upside-down, Paris forking over hundreds from the little plastic bank (she always insists on being the banker). “And I wouldn’t worry about that. If she’d wanted to be polite, she would have complimented your shoes or laughed at your bad jokes. If she invited you to an event, then you two are friends. Simple.” 

“She compliments my shoes and laughs at my bad jokes, too,” Paris had pointed at while Nanny, having rolled doubles, landed herself in the Free Parking square. Using her newly acquired cash, Paris bought two houses for each of the navy blue properties. 

“She’s being polite and she is your friend. The two typically go hand and hand,” Nanny explained, all the while handing Paris fifty dollars for having landed on a railroad. 

“Hmm. I guess that makes sense,” Paris mused. It really _is_ something that had needed explaining. “But she’s everybody’s friend.”

“Does that somehow invalidate _your_ friendship with her?” Go figure; Nanny always asks all the right questions. 

“I guess not,” Paris admitted. “But it’s not as high-stakes for her as it is for me because she can make friends with anyone. I’m not special.”

“Of course you are special to her, _meu bem,_ ” Nanny had assured her, putting a comforting hand on Paris’s. “That just means she has a lot of room in her heart.”

“I guess so,” Paris said glumly. “Hah! Jail, again? What did you do _this_ time?” 

As of present, Paris is still on the phone with Rory, hashing out the finer details as she tries to convince herself that Nanny’s wisdom accurately reflects Rory’s friendship with her. 

“So, my mom actually has to pick up something from my grandma in Hartford tomorrow, so we could pick you up on the way back if you want,” says Rory. 

Paris frowns. “Shouldn’t you just pick it up when you go over for dinner Friday?” 

“Well, tomorrow my grandparents are hopping on a plane to Fiji. My grandma says that it’s-- and this is a quote-- _mostly to get away from you people_.” 

And thus, the wrath of a bitter grandmother has once more trumped the supposed love and support that comes with family. Paris knows from the time she’s spent talking with Rory about her grandparents that it’s not even a joke; Emily Gilmore never jokes. She offers a non-sympathetic snort of laughter.

“That’s never good. You really need to stop upsetting her,” Paris teases.

“It’s not even my fault. It was my mom. Grandma’s still angry that she cut off her engagement to Mr. Medina.” She lowers her voice slightly for the last part. 

“She did? Wow. I knew they’d never last, but I didn’t think she would abandon ship _that_ early. Probably smart, but still. It must be some sort of record.”

“Yeah...could you please not bring it up tomorrow? She’s still pretty freaked out. We went on an impromptu road trip last week, actually. The town has only just gotten over it, and I really don’t need anyone to remind them.” 

“Of course I won’t,” says Paris instantly, vaguely insulted at the idea that this is something Rory feels like she has to worry about in the first place. “Who do you take me for?”

“You.”

It’s a punch to the gut, but Paris can’t really say Rory is wrong on this point. 

“Anyways, fine. What time?” It’s a bit of an abrupt topic switch, but Rory isn’t the kind of person to deny one a topic switch during an uncomfortable situation, so she lets it happen. 

“We were thinking around two. Actually, my grandma was thinking that, because she has to have a fixed time for everything so she wouldn’t stop until my mom gave her an answer, but we can always call and reschedule. But two would actually be good, because then we’d get back to my house around two forty, then we would be at the festival around three if we hung out around the house for a little. Then at six we could head to Luke’s for burgers, and then the town meeting would be at seven, and then we head back to the house. You could go home after that and be home by nine at the very latest.” She says it all in a rush. Paris is impressed that she doesn’t seem to take a single breath throughout, something which she’d thought only didgeridoo players could really pull off. “Sound good?” 

“Wow. Can I get an itinerary for that?” Paris feels a smile twitch at her mouth; usually she’s the one with the freakishly detailed schedules. Plus, it’s sort of cute how much Rory seems to care about this whole thing. Maybe Nanny is right, after all. 

“Do you want…?” Rory trails off in her uncertainty. 

“And you say I’m bad at detecting jokes,” Paris scoffs. “All I mean is that you seem to have put an awful lot of thought into this whole thing.” 

“I mean, not really,” Rory denies in a rush, her voice going squeaky at the end. “I just want your first impression of Stars Hollow to be good.”

“My first impression of Stars Hollow has already happened and it was that monstrosity you call Monty the Rooster.” 

“Don’t insult Monty!” And suddenly, Rory has gone defensive. 

“Hey, it’s not Monty’s fault somebody didn’t know how to sculpt.” 

Paris can practically see that not _quite_ intimidating half-scowl fighting a grin Rory always seems to wear when she’s being difficult, and the smile threatens to expand.

“He’s a product of somebody’s hard labor. You’ve gotta respect _that_.” 

“I respect fine art. Everything other than such is subject to my critique. That’s how art works. You think artistry has gotten this far by praising Bob Ross like he’s Leonardo Da Vinci?” Paris takes a second to hesitate before adding, “actually, bad example. Don’t answer that. You get my point.” 

“Oh, please,” Rory says, apparently having chosen to ignore the Bob Ross comment. “You don’t know anything about fine art.” 

“I bet I know more about it than you.”

“Whatever,” huffs Rory. “All that I ask is that you respect the rooster. You’re gonna make him _sad._ ”

“I’ll try my best, but I make zero promises.”

That night, Paris has trouble thinking for how excited yet nervous she is. Which is annoying, because what with the lack of schoolwork and all, summer break is usually when Paris catches up on sleep. 

Eventually she gives up on the idea of a night’s rest, instead opting to flick the switch of the lamp on her bedside table. She fumbles at one of the piles of books she keeps on every available surface and winds up knocking a couple over before successfully grasping her hand around one. She flips it over to look at the title: _Cannery Row._

Usually, when Paris reads _Cannery Row,_ she can only really think incredulously about how thoroughly loaded with dumbasses the town seems to be. This time, she’s a little envious of how much fun they seem to be having. Of course there are some less fun parts, like the guy who skewers himself through with an ice pick, but all in all, it’s a pretty lighthearted story. 

Paris has always vaguely wondered if small town life is really like John Steinbeck has promised. She supposes she’ll find out tomorrow.

***

When the time finally comes, the telltale ring of the doorbell sounding through the large house in which she lives, Paris springs up anxiously like a dog at the sight of a leash. She throws down her book, hands shaking slightly as she replaces her bookmark and shuts it, not even bothering to leave it in a bookshelf or on one of the piles like she’s usually so careful to (it’s organized chaos, okay?) as she tries to pace herself on the way out of her room.

Paris hears the faint sound of Lorelai animatedly rambling to one of the maids before she has even made her way down the stairs. 

“...see, it’s a fashion statement.”

“What’s a fashion statement?” asks Paris once she’s reached the foot of the staircase, a little bit scared to know the answer.

When both Gilmores turn their heads towards Paris, the question deems itself irrelevant. Lorelai has curled a long, neon pink feather boa around her neck.

“Okay, I’m sorry I asked,” Paris concludes, putting her hands up in the air in defeat.

“My dad gave it to me,” Lorelai explains.

“And by that,” Rory adds matter-of-factly, an informative finger raised, “she means that she stole it from him.”

Paris takes another step towards the foyer. The maid, evidently having seen adequate proof that Paris knows these lunatics, makes her escape with some muttered excuse about answering the phone. 

“Why does your grandpa even have a feather boa? Does he have a dark history in his high school theater program or something?” Paris wants to know. For the first time since spotting Lorelai’s questionable fashion decision, Paris looks at Rory.

She’s ogling the house. Understandable, given that she’s never actually seen where Paris lives before. Her attire is much more normal than Lorelai’s; she’s just wearing a scarlet turtleneck sweater and a pair of skinny jeans, but it suits her.

If Rory’s wearing any makeup, it comes in the form of eyeliner, mascara, and a light layer of lip gloss. Nothing too intense, which is just perfect to compliment her natural beauty without overpowering it. The happy flush of her cheeks is still ever-present, as are the freckles. 

Her hair is pulled into a high, tight ponytail. Only a couple locks of hair have made their way out of the hair tie (whether or not this was on purpose is unclear, and Paris would be helpless to guess) and lay elegantly over her forehead.

It takes Paris just a second too long to realize that she’s spent long enough staring dumbly at Rory for it to be awkward before she speaks. 

“I like your sweater,” she blurts, because apparently her literature loving, overachieving, Harvard-bound noggin can’t think of anything better to say.

Then again, it _is_ a nice sweater. 

Rory beams down at her, seeming positively delighted by the compliment. She’s probably also in a little bit of shock, since sincere compliments are few and far between when it comes to Paris Geller.

“Thank you!” 

“Yeah,” Paris says, and because the universe feels out of balance if she doesn’t add some snarky comment to the end, “don’t get used to it.” 

“Oh, believe me when I say I won’t,” Rory assures her, but she still won’t stop smiling. It’s making Paris want to smile, which is thoroughly mystifying and slightly otherworldly. Frustrating, at the very least. 

“Alright, girls,” announces Lorelai once the silence between the two has gone on long enough. She claps her hands together, bouncing on her tiptoes. “Hop on into the car and get ready for a Stars Hollow adventure!” 

“Sounds like a plan,” agrees Rory, giving Lorelai her attention for just long enough to nod approvingly and show appropriate enthusiasm before turning back to Paris. “You ready?” 

Paris isn’t sure that she’ll ever be ready.

“Yep,” she says nonetheless. 

“Great.”

And just like that, they’re piling into Lorelai’s Jeep. Paris expects Rory to take shotgun, but just as she’s resigning herself to sitting alone in the back, Rory takes the seat next to her and is swinging the car door shut. Paris frowns questioningly at her. 

“What?” Rory asks.

“Aren’t you gonna sit up front?” Paris points to the seat left of the driver’s seat. “Or do you still use a booster seat, too?”

“Oh, Rory outgrew her booster seat a _long_ time ago,” chirps Lorelai, starting the car. It makes a rather worrying spluttering noise, and Paris is concerned that it might not start. Of course, it does after about three tries. “I think she’s just trying to, you know, be polite.”

“Oh,” mutters Paris, because now that she thinks about it, that _does_ make sense. “I knew that.”

“I’m sure you did,” Rory says, offering Paris a jovial pat on the back. 

“And the front seat’s taken,” Lorelai adds. Paris frowns, unsure what she means until she leans forward to peer into the passenger’s side of the car’s front. On it sits a rather angry-looking stone gargoyle. Its lips are curled into a snarl, stone gums exposed. It has a lion’s mane, but other than that Paris hasn’t the faintest clue what sort of creature it’s supposed to be.

“What the hell is that?” she demands, pointing an accusatory finger at the thing.

“That’s Gustavo,” Rory offers. 

“Really?” Lorelai counters. “I thought we were calling him Gustafon.” 

“Oh, right!” Rory smacks herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand as if in realization. “I can’t believe I didn’t remember that.”

“Shame on you,” scolds Lorelai.

It’s then that Paris puts two and two together, remembering what Rory had said on the phone the other night.

“Wait. Is _that_ what you had to pick up from your grandparents’ house?” She turns to Rory for confirmation and receives it. Paris is vaguely reminded of the gargoyles at Chilton. She’s now thoroughly convinced that the only reason that Richard and Emily Gilmore keep Lorelai and Rory in their lives is so that they can have appropriate means of unloading their crap. 

Paris spends most of the drive to Stars Hollow staring out the window of the car while Rory and her mother chatter about who knows what, all the while marveling about how perky they seem.

Perky when Lorelai has just dropped Max Medina like a hot potato and when the both of them have reportedly run off on a road trip from which they are only just back, something which the elder Gilmores are reportedly quite pissed about.

Either they’re pretending or they’re just _really_ upbeat people. Paris would be willing to bet a decent amount of money on the latter. Rory is almost freakishly optimistic sometimes. Still, there seems to be the slightest hint of tension between the two that Paris will continue to analyze once out of their immediate presence. 

The drive’s long. Rory makes an effort to include Paris in conversation, which is annoying but, admittedly, quite sweet. Really, Paris is fine with just gazing out the car window for forty minutes, alone with her thoughts. 

For some reason, Paris has always loved long car rides. Long periods of time where she can sit around and do virtually nothing yet not feel guilty about as much, because how _would_ she do anything in a moving car? She finds it relaxing, and it’s the first time in a while that she’s had an opportunity to spend more than maybe ten minutes on a drive. 

Like usual, Paris’s thoughts are intensely Rory-oriented. This is likely amplified by Rory’s sitting right next to her. It bothers Paris less than it usually does, which is strange. The thing is, if Paris doesn’t let herself get too bothered by the Rory thoughts, they’re sort of nice. Just things like them frolicking through snowy fields and holding hands and doing things that the mere thought of would normally make Paris want to vomit.

Said Rory thoughts are disturbed when, after the forty minutes are over, the subject herself taps Paris lightly on the shoulder.

“Hello? Anybody in there?” she asks, voice tinged with amusement. Paris jumps slightly.

“Uh, yeah. Are we there already?”

“Mhm,” says Rory with a perky nod. “You missed your chance to see Monty.”

Paris scowls at this. “Oh, Monty Schmonty.”

Rory feigns a gasp, a scandalized hand rising to her mouth. “How dare you!” 

Cracking the car door open, Paris can see that they are, in fact, in Stars Hollow. The last time she’d been here, it had been before her date with Tristan and she’d been forcing Rory to help her pick out a date outfit. Things have changed so much since then, though Paris can hardly put a finger on why or how.

“Alright, kiddos,” Lorelai declares, pulling the neon pink feather boa from around her neck and slinging it instead over that of Gustafon the gargoyle. And, despite having asked what was functionally the same question upon arriving at Paris’s house, “are you ready for some Stars Hollow shenanigans?” 

Paris hops out her side of the car, joined shortly by Rory.

“Yeah!” enthuses Rory, pumping a fist in the air.

“I don’t know. _Am_ I?” Paris questions, vaguely dubious. 

“Oh, of course you are,” says Rory dismissively, throwing an arm carelessly over Paris’s shoulder. Playfully, she leans her face close to Paris’s and stage whispers, “they’re really not that bad.” Paris assumes that she means the townspeople. 

“Once you get to know them,” Lorelai adds, now clutching Gustafon in her arms with a wide smile. He looks at home, even with that stony scowl. “Alright. You two get to hang out for a little-- grab a snack, have a girl chat, watch TV, whatever-- and give me a holler when you’re ready to get out. I’ll be getting our new friend situated.” She pats Gustafon lovingly on the head. He continues to glower, seemingly right at Paris. 

“Okey dokey,” says Rory serenely, by this point having removed her arm from Paris. 

Paris watches in a mild peril at the fact that she will now be expected to interact with Rory like a normal human being as Lorelai heads up the stairs, weighed down slightly by the gargoyle clutched in her arms. She turns to Rory.

“Is that going in her room?” 

Rory turns around, throwing herself down on the couch and patting the spot next to her invitingly before responding. “Oh, probably. And I’ll bet you anything that feather boa isn’t coming off anytime soon.” 

Paris has a gut feeling that Rory is correct on that front. She joins her on the couch, but she can’t help but feel a little uneasy, what with being in Rory’s home and all. 

Rory seems to sense Paris’s discomfort, sliding an inch or two away from her on the couch. Paris, suddenly fearful that Rory is privy to the real inner dilemma she’s facing-- the _oh gosh, feelings_ one-- closes these couple of inches between them nearly instantly. Almost aggressively.

Now, with them squished together-- childsplay after how Rory had had the audacity to _sit on her_ at the Braxtons’ mansion, Paris assures herself-- the tension between them is so thick that one could probably cut it with a knife.

Right as Paris opens her mouth to say something (though _what_ she plans to say, she isn’t entirely sure), her prayers for _anything_ to interrupt the awkward silence are suddenly answered: at this very moment, the door bursts open.

The serious, rather graceless looking man that struts through the door looks like he should be a teenager. Paris feels like she should be threatened by the fact that this guy has essentially just broken into the Gilmore house, but can’t quite bring herself too.

Rory’s eyes widen as she shouts, “Kirk! What are you doing here?”

Paris turns to give Rory a judgmental look. “You _know_ this guy?”

“It’s a small town,” Rory explains. “Everyone knows everyone.”

“Duh,” adds the intruder (Kirk?) oh-so helpfully in a scornful tone.

“Nobody asked you, Kirk,” Paris scolds. 

Kirk winces, recoiling as if hit. “Ouch.”

“Hey, be nice to Kirk,” Rory orders her, putting a hand on her hip. It looks a little goofy with her sitting down.

“Who even is this?” Kirk wants to know, taking a further step into the house (without invitation). 

“Right,” Paris says. “Talk about me like I’m not even here. I won’t mind.” 

“This is my…” Rory hesitates, stuck on finding a descriptor for their relationship. They haven’t _quite_ gotten to friends level, if they’re working on it, and arch nemesis sounds a tad too sinister. “Paris.” 

“Is she the one from the scary, fancy school?” asks Kirk, his facial expression contorting into one of fear.

“The one and only,” Paris confirms, all the while wondering if this means Rory’s talked about her. 

“Can I close the door?” asks Kirk. “There’s a spider.” He whines like a petulant child.

“I mean, sure,” Rory allows, “but you never answered my question. What on God’s green Earth are you _doing_ here?” 

“I’ve got to use your toaster,” says Kirk casually, as though this explains everything. 

“Wha--” Rory shakes her head as if making an attempt to wake herself from a particularly bizarre dream. “ _Why_ do you need our toaster?”

“The less you know the better,” Paris tells her seriously, her fingers drifting over Rory’s wrist to bring it down from where it had been raised in a questioning gesture. “Just give the creep the toaster and send him out.” 

“I don’t really like your friend,” Kirk says, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. 

“Nobody really does,” admits Paris with a shrug. “Now get the toaster and get out.” 

Kirk looks wounded as he marches into the Gilmore kitchen, presumably in search of the toaster Paris isn’t entirely sure they even own. Then again, their love of PopTarts makes such an appliance necessary, lest they’re the kind of people to eat their PopTarts cold. 

There’s the sound of footsteps at the staircase, and Paris looks up to see a rather dismayed-looking Lorelai. 

“Have my ears deceived me, or did I just hear…” She trails off in disbelief. 

“Kirk?” Rory asks. Lorelai nods. “Yup. Kitchen.” 

“Holy cheese and crackers,” mutters Lorelai as she rushes into a different room.

“Why the hell does he need a toaster?” Paris wonders out loud. She and Rory are still a bit too close to one another, but they’ve drifted to the point where Paris can comfortably speak without feeling like she’s about to spontaneously combust (a legitimate concern when it comes to Rory Gilmore). 

“Listen,” Rory prompts, cocking her head slightly in the direction of the kitchen. Paris pricks her ears up and is soon tuned into the rather impassioned argument Kirk is having with Lorelai in the other room. 

“...I’m sorry, Kirk, I can’t just let you _have_ my toaster. I’d probably never see it again.”

“But _Lorelai!_ The Stars Hollow summer festival needs bagels, and mine is broken!”

“Yes, bagels. Don’t question it,” says Rory wearily to Paris. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Paris says. And when Rory gives her a questioning look, “hey, I can appreciate bagels. An important part of Jewish cuisine, you know.” 

“Huh, I actually didn’t,” replies Rory. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Paris doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turning back towards the conversation currently occurring in the kitchen. 

“Go ask Luke or something,” Lorelai suggests hopefully-- no, desperately. 

“But you don’t even cook,” Kirk protests. “What use could you _possibly_ have for a toaster?”

There’s a moment of indecisive silence. “And now she agrees,” Rory predicts.

“I _guess,”_ Lorelai mutters. Rory’s lips perk up into a smug smile, and she leans in towards Paris. 

“Told you so,” she says.

“Just bring it back, _please,”_ Lorelai continues.

“Yes!” cheers Kirk.

“Kirk, don’t hu-- okay.” 

“I won’t let you down.”

Kirk then proceeds to scurry, toaster in hand with the cord trailing behind, out the door, slamming the door triumphantly. Paris hears Lorelai sigh in the other room as though questioning her life decisions. Paris would be, too, if she were Lorelai. 

“Does this happen often?” Paris asks Rory, bemused.

“You have no idea,” Rory affirms.

“This explains so, _so_ much.” 

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” 

And suddenly Rory’s grin feels like it’s there _for_ Paris, like they’re sharing an inside joke or even as though she’s just happy Paris is there. It makes the pit of anxiety in her stomach, the one that’s formed as a consequence of her worries about the upcoming afternoon with Rory on top of those about life in general, shrink a little.

It’s what Rory does to her, damn it. Makes her feel lighter on her feet. Rory’s lightness rubs off on her, and it makes her happy. It’s not a bad feeling. Paris is sure a few more hours of it won’t hurt; she relaxes against the back of the couch. 

“Wanna see what’s on?” asks Rory, gesturing towards the TV in front of them with the remote she’s produced out of seemingly nowhere.

“Sure. It probably won’t be anything good, though,” Paris warns her.

“ _Au contraire,_ Paris. The bad television is the best kind,” Rory disputes.

When she first turns it on, the channel is CSPAN, which is airing some sort of political debate. 

“What’s this?” Paris asks when, with the click of a button, the screen switches to a show she’s unfamiliar with. A man is arguing with a woman so violently that spit is flying out of his mouth. They stand in front of a single chicken on what looks to be a tropical island. It squawks every once in a while, but for the most part makes much less of a racket than the people.

“...no, no! Jordan, you’ve got it all _wrong._ That’s not how chickens work.”

“As if you know any better,” scoffs the man. Both of them are, for whatever reason, in their underwear.

Rory looks incredulously at Paris. “You’ve never heard of _Survivor?”_

“Nope,” Paris confirms, looking back to the screen.

“I actually do,” says the woman with an air of superiority. “For example, _I_ know that if we eat the boy chicken, the girl chicken stops laying eggs.”

Paris audibly snorts at this. “I’m sorry, are these people _idiots?”_ she demands, throwing her hands out in a frustrated gesture at the screen. “This is scripted. It’s gotta be. There’s no way any real people are _actually_ this dumb.”

“That’s Toni.” Rory points at the woman. “She graduated from Stanford.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“Welp, there goes my faith in humanity.” 

It’s at this point that the chicken meets its untimely demise, Toni bawling her eyes out all the while the narrator rambles on about...something.

“Reality TV,” Rory giggles. “It’s lots of fun.”

“No, it’s not. I want to punch everybody here in the face _already,_ and I haven’t been watching for five minutes, _”_ Paris argues. Meanwhile, Toni has calmed down marginally and is now blubbering something about _I went to Stanford, damn it!_

“That’s the fun of it!” exclaims Rory, still in a giggle fit. Bafflingly, her arm has once more made its way around Paris’s shoulders; well, not _exactly_ , because technically it’s only laying over the section of the couch Paris is leaning against, but it’s still there and doing _something_. 

Paris knows she won’t be able to focus on anything else until the arm has either cleared the premises entirely or is making contact with her so, in a moment of bravery, she uses a free arm to pull Rory’s arm the rest of the way. There’s pretty much no way to do such a thing gracefully, so the whole ordeal is rather clumsy. Still, all it takes is a tug, what with how close the arm already is. If Rory notices, she doesn’t seem to care.

“They’re having Tribal Council tonight, I bet you anything,” Rory foretells. Paris realizes they’re still talking about this stupid reality TV show, so she refocuses on it, still fascinated by Rory’s hand draped over her shoulder.

“Gonna tell me what the hell _that_ is?” Paris prompts, narrowing her eyes at a different group of dumbasses that have appeared onscreen. Like the first, they’re arguing quite passionately. Unlike the first, they are wearing more than underwear. This is a great source of relief. 

The thing is, Paris doesn’t actually care about the show. It’s fascinating in the same way it may be fascinating to watch insects mating with one another on the ground: mildly disgusting, but you can’t really tear your eyes away. 

Paris lets Rory ramble on about the different contestants and the setup anyways, because the way Rory talks about it, she clearly enjoys getting to explain about something Paris doesn’t already know, regardless of whether or not she’s actually listening.

Instead of focusing on the words flying rapidly from Rory’s mouth, Paris chooses to focus on how close they are. How easy it would be to lean in just a little and rest her head on Rory’s shoulder, at which point she could probably fall asleep. 

Rory’s shoulder, she figures, is probably more comfortable than her own bed (possibly a creepy thought, but whatever). Paris would be more than happy to doze off against it if it weren’t for a certain self respect she can’t bring herself to shake. 

“...can even catch an episode of _Big Brother_ if we get back on time,” Rory is saying at some point. Paris is pretty sure she’s been fretting over Paris’s lack of exposure to reality TV, something which hasn’t given Paris herself too much grief.

“Mhm.” Paris leans against the back of the couch, the underside of her head hitting Rory’s arm on the way. Seemingly subconsciously, Rory adjusts to accommodate the new position.

Paris is just wondering how comfortable, exactly, is _too_ comfortable when Lorelai comes bursting in with the cheery announcement that, now that Kirk’s got the toaster set up, it’s time for them to head off to the Stars Hollow summer festival.

Almost instantly upon hearing her, Paris jerks a good three inches away from Rory. Rory, looking somewhat annoyed, moves her arm so that it’s hanging over the edge of the couch as opposed to Paris’s shoulder.

“Just a moment, Mom,” she calls just as Paris is wrestling a shoe onto her foot from where she’d slipped out of them less than ten minutes ago. “We still don’t know who they voted out!”

“Oh, get over it,” Paris scoffs. “All of them are the losers. How do I know? Because they got cheated into applying for the trashiest trash fire humanity has to offer, in the form of reality television. There’s no good reason to do that, save for if somebody has a gun to your head.”

Rory looks at her with wide eyes. “Yeah, but who’s gonna be voted out?”

Paris sighs, standing from the couch. “Well, let me know when that’s happened. I’m going to go use your bathroom-- it’s that way, right?” She points in the direction which she vaguely remembers to be home to the Gilmore restroom. Rory nods in confirmation.

“If you use the sink, you have to be really gentle. The sink lever thingy keeps falling off. If it does that, just screw it back on. It’s really ea-- ooh, they’re lighting the torches!” 

Paris, neither knowing nor caring what torches have to do with the whole ordeal, departs from the couch and heads in the direction in which Rory had pointed. 

***

“Rory!” What seems like the fifth person that day rushes towards Rory with a wide smile. Rory really hadn’t been kidding about the whole _everybody knows everybody_ thing.

They’ve already run into Kirk, Rory having politely rejected his offer of a bagel. Paris had also rejected the offer, if a little less politely. 

“Taylor!” greets Rory. She says it too loudly and too enthusiastically, as though she’s trying to think of any possible way to escape his company without it being considered rude. 

The man isn’t _that_ old, but he’s already got gray hair. His eyebrows are arched in the authoritative manner that marks many of the teachers at Chilton, except for that on him they seem like a bit of a joke. Oh, and he’s wearing what has to be the ugliest sweater vest Paris has ever seen.

“How are you enjoying the festival?” Taylor waves his arms over his head in an arc at the word _festival_ , giving it a wonder Paris isn’t confident it deserves. It’s almost as though he’s being sarcastic; the problem is that he’s emphatically _not_. 

“Oh, it’s been fantastic,” says Rory. She tries to match the enthusiasm Taylor has employed with rather lacking results. She, too, sounds as though employing sarcasm. 

“Who’s your friend?” Taylor turns to Paris, those eyebrows furrowing in suspicion. “She’s not a spy from _Woodbury,_ now is she?”

“What’s Woodbury?” Paris asks.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Taylor snaps, pointing an accusatory finger at Paris. “I’m onto you.”

“Taylor, it’s okay,” Rory giggles, inching closer to Paris and putting a light hand over her shoulder as if to signify their bond. “She’s just my friend from school.”

“Hmm.” Taylor takes a second to scrutinize Paris. Apparently she passes the test, because he gives a sharp nod of approval. “Okay. Enjoy the festival--” He falters.

“Paris,” Paris tells him.

“Ooh. I love that name,” compliments Taylor. 

Paris rolls her eyes at this. “Get in line.”

“Taylor, I know she’s not from Stars Hollow and all that, but is it okay if she joins us at the town meeting this evening?” Rory asks. “You know, since she’s _not_ a spy from Woodbury.”

Taylor strokes at his beard, appraising Paris. 

“Please.” Paris looms, unimpressed, over Taylor (despite a rather lacking height, Paris Geller threateningly looms with the best of them). “You really think I care _that much_ about your small town high jinks, that I’m going to-- what?-- that I’m wired so I can bring information back to the enemy? We from Hartford are way beyond petty revenge plots, believe me. So don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Okay,” Taylor agrees eventually. He doesn’t look _too_ pleased about the back-sass, but is apparently willing enough to let it slide. Paris likes to think that at least a small part of this is due to the looming. “Just keep an eye on your friend, okay, Rory?”

Rory nods dutifully, seeming quite relieved as Taylor skips off to greet somebody else. 

“Sorry about him,” she says once he’s out of earshot, cringing apologetically. Paris waves it off.

“Nah, it’s fine. You have no idea the nutjobs I run into at my parents’ parties. The only difference is that these guys aren’t pretentious nutjobs. So, really, this is nothing.”

As much as Paris loathes to admit it, the festival as a whole is actually pretty charming. Even if the band keeps playing the same song over and over and _over_ again. The people chatter amicably amongst each other, and it’s entertaining to poke fun at the various booths. So far, the stupidest booth is the knitted furniture covers booth, but Paris is confident that they’ll run into something stupider. 

“Let’s go get some salted nuts,” Rory suggests. “Gypsy’s running that stand this year. I told her I’d say hi.”

“Okay,” agrees Paris, mostly because Rory seems in her element and it’s fun to be herded through the different stands. 

“Over there.” Rory points across the festival to a booth that has a massive cardboard cutout of a peanut shell in front of it with a hole in the top that you can put your face through (not that any sensible human being ever _would_ ). It’s pretty far off. “C’mon!” Rory breaks into a jog, grabbing at Paris’s hand when she doesn’t follow.

All Paris has been able to do this whole time has been smile stupidly-- not at the event itself, but at Rory’s different reactions to everything and general childlike excitement-- and this is no exception. 

Kids run around the field holding little red and white cartons of various unhealthy snacks, their parents guiding them with fond groans of exhaustion. One dad rolls a pair of twins around in a stroller, one of the kids with a clumsily formed fist in the air while the other blubbers out an incomprehensible exclamation of excitement. 

To put it shortly, it’s hard _not_ to be in a good mood here, even if Paris has made an effort. Really, though, it’s Rory. The happy giggles, her clutching Paris’s hand like it’s nothing-- to her, it probably is-- and the way her face is constantly red with exertion as she runs from booth to booth. 

Paris decides to just go with it. It’s a nice day, and she doesn’t know when, if ever, she’ll be given the opportunity to feel this strange exuberance again. 

“Hey, Gypsy!” chirps Rory once they’ve reached the salted nuts stand. She seems far too excited about said stand for somebody who’s diet is composed entirely of PopTarts, massive pancakes, and Hostess products. 

Rory doesn’t let go of Paris’s hands, and they swing under the edge of the booth together. Paris lets her hand go slack to see if it’ll fall out of Rory’s. It doesn’t, their knuckles still caught together. Rory’s hand is sticky thanks to the large, rather horrifying bundle of blue and neon pink cotton candy she’d consumed within the first five minutes of their having arrived at the festival.

It’s slightly smaller than Paris’s, but they fit together nonetheless. Paris finds herself hardly even noticing the way the heat from the sun mixed with body heat has stuck their hands together with the repulsive sugary goo on Rory’s hand and the sweat on Paris’s. All she can really focus on is the way the pads of her fingers slide over the soft skin between Rory’s and how Rory’s thumb lands right in the palm of Paris’s hand like they were made to accommodate each other. Or some romantic shit like that.

Then Rory jerks her head to look at Paris, and from the way her mouth is moving it becomes apparent that she’s saying something. Like one does when one is hanging out with one’s friend. _Crap._

“Sorry, wha-- what?” Paris stammers, shaking her head as if to clear it of thoughts of silly things like hand holding or the copious amounts of hand lotion Rory must use. 

“Salted nuts?” Rory repeats herself. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem all that bothered by the five minutes Paris has spent completely and utterly spaced out. Amused, if anything.

“Oh, no thanks,” dismisses Paris. “I don’t like eating too much salt. I mean, it’s good for you in small amounts, but too much sodium and your blood pressure is all out of whack, you’re suddenly at risk for all sorts of shit like heart attacks or just generally anything that results in you more or less just dropping dead one day before the age of seventy…” She’s rambling again, but, unfortunately, she can’t seem to stop. “In fact, Gilmore, I’d say you’re a dead woman by fifty.”

Gypsy, who has been attentively watching this whole interaction, points a decisive finger at Paris. “Kid, she’s not wrong. You’d better watch it.” 

“Are you going to take away my salted nuts?” Rory uses both hands to pull the small carton of assorted nuts protectively against her chest. This results in Paris no longer holding Rory’s hand. At least she can think like a normal human being again. Avoid any further blithering about cardiovascular troubles one might experience if one eats too many salted nuts. 

“Not this time, you’ve already paid,” Gypsy assures her. “Plus, this is one of the more healthy options around here. Just don’t come back over here any time in the next half hour is all I’m saying.”

Rory’s face falls. “What if my car breaks down?”

“You don’t even _have_ a car,” Gypsy points out, “and if you did you could always bring it in during business hours. Like a normal person. I’m pretty sure motor oil in the food service industry is some sort of health violation.”

“Nobody in Stars Hollow is normal,” Paris pipes up. “Or, that’s the impression I’m getting.”

Gypsy raises her eyebrows approvingly at Paris. She’s pointing again. “Again, not wrong. Impressive; takes most of ‘em a _long_ time to adjust. Keep this one, kiddo.” 

Paris isn’t sure what Gypsy means by this, just that she’d much rather not overanalyze it. Rory runs a hand through her hair, somewhat wrecking the neat ponytail she’d had it tucked into. Despite as much, she does it again and again until she’s scowling and pulling her hair tie out entirely, then running her hands through her hair yet again to amend the damage.

“You good?” asks Gypsy, narrowing her eyes at the pair, Rory specifically, as she scrutinizes them. She leans on the surface of the booth. 

“Uh, yeah,” Rory mutters, ducking her head down. 

“Well, then, scram. You’re holding up the line.”

Rory reddens at this, scrambling for her salted nuts before promptly scurrying away. They _have_ , in fact, been holding up the line quite a bit; why so many people are clamoring for salted nuts, Paris is unsure. 

“So. Uh. What do you want to do next?” Rory places a salted peanut in her mouth. She’s finally left her hair alone. “The next logical step would be lemonade, but we can do whatever you want.” 

Rory offers the carton of nuts to Paris, who takes a single cashew after a slight hesitation. It’s _really_ salty, which is addicting in a strange, vaguely scary kind of way. She goes in for another, naturally (she’s going to have to lower her sodium intake significantly for the next week and a half). 

Paris looks around at the various booths, considering. There’s face painting, and while Paris herself is averse to such an idea, Rory would probably get a kick out of it, and Paris would get a kick out of making fun of her for whatever travesty ended up on her face. She dismisses the idea, figuring that it would take more time than it would be worth.

The next readily available booth is a trivia type of thing, which Paris can get behind. It’s a better contender than the fortune telling booth, and an opportunity to flaunt her knowledge on varying subjects. She points to the stand.

“That one,” she declares. “I don’t know what kind of trivia questions they’ve got for those sorry losers who play with their kids, but I’m sure we’d kick ass.” 

Rory raises her eyebrows dubiously. “Some of them are about movies and stuff,” she warns. “But if you’re really ready to let me beat you, let’s go.”

“Let’s go,” Paris agrees, determined. 

The woman running the trivia booth is a short, smiling Korean woman who Rory greets warmly. 

“Hey, Mrs. Kim!” 

“Rory.” Mrs. Kim gives a short bob of her head in salutations. “You’re here for trivia?” 

“Yup,” Rory confirms.

“And your friend?”

“This is Paris,” explains Rory, gesturing towards Paris. “She goes to school with me.”

Mrs. Kim furrows her eyebrows suspiciously, her grin having faded. Paris has no idea why everybody seems so alarmed by the idea of Rory having some friend they’ve never met, but she waves at the woman anyway. 

“Hmm.” Mrs. Kim appraises Paris for a moment before giving her a tight-lipped smile of approval. It seems to take a lot of effort. “Nice to meet you.” She turns back to Rory. “Would you like to see Lane?” 

“Yes, please,” says Rory.

Mrs. Kim disappears into the depths of the booth, only for the girl who Paris can only assume to be her daughter to take her place. It occurs to her that she’s never actually met Lane before, for all Rory talks about her. 

“Rory,” says Lane brightly upon seeing her. “So glad you’re here. I know the festival is supposed to be fun or something, but I’m not allowed to eat any of the food, and there aren’t enough chairs around here for me to be able to sit...so many tourists, I haven’t seen anybody who I actually know-- so, any actual locals-- other than my _mother_. I’m dying out here. Hey, this must be the infamous Paris!” 

“I’m infamous?” Paris questions. This fact is one which delights her a lot more than it probably should. 

“Very,” Lane verifies. Paris looks to Rory for confirmation. She nods. “She talks about you all the time.”

“She talks about _you_ all the time,” Paris counters. “I don’t always listen, but she talks.” 

Lane looks pleasantly surprised by this, turning to Rory. “Aw, so you _do_ actually like me!”

“Of course I do,” says Rory. “And I don’t talk about you _that_ much,” she adds to Paris. “She’s exaggerating.”

“No. No, I’m not,” Lane counters. “For the past six months, all she’s talked about is how she’s going to kick your ass at some test or how much she hates you or something you said that she thought was funny. Frankly, it’s exhausting, but I guess it’s nice to finally meet you.” 

Paris glances at Rory, who’s suddenly taken an interest in the ledge of the booth, tracing her fingernail over the wood. Paris feels her own face go warm; does Rory really talk about her _that_ much? How much of it is even in a negative context? 

“It’s always _Paris made such a good objection in our mock trial_ or _I think Paris hates me_ or _what should I get Paris for her birthday,_ which, if you were wondering, turned into _Paris’s birthday isn’t actually coming up, I think I got it mixed up with the three month anniversary of the first time Paris let me use her pencil without stabbing me with it first--”_

“I think,” Rory says, taking a deep, fortifying breath, “I think that’s enough.” 

“So, trivia.” Lane claps her hands together. Rory looks up from the booth’s ledge, her face slightly red. “Who’s going first?”

“Me,” says Paris, almost before Lane can even finish. “I’m going first. Give Rory a reason to cower in fear.”

“I won’t cower,” Rory insists, giving Paris a reproachful glare.

“Yes, you _will_ ,” Paris maintains. “Now hit me with a question. Make it a _hard_ one.” 

“None of these questions are especially hard,” Lane admits. “They sort of suck. So, I assume you want to play this as a competition thing.”

Both Paris and Rory nod vigorously at this.

“Alright. So, how this is going to work is that you’ll both pick a topic, and you each have to answer three questions per topic. Whoever gets the most questions right wins. This isn’t even actually supposed to be competitive, I just made that up. Anyways. What topics?” 

“Literature,” says Paris because, if she can beat Rory at her own game, even better.

“Pop culture,” Rory says at the same time with a smirk. Paris’s confidence wanes a little. 

“Okay.” Lane grabs a stack of homemade construction paper cards from the ledge of the booth. “Starting with the literature. Here’s the first question. What’s the name of Sherlock Holmes’s partner in his work as a dete--”

“ _Boring!”_ seethes Paris, slamming a hand on the ledge. “That’s awful. Like, really awful. Did you write that one in your _sleep?_ Because I could answer it from the grave. _”_

“Well,” defends Lane, seeming rather taken aback, “these are meant to be for ki--”

“Give me another one,” Paris orders, sporting her scariest glower.

Powerless to refuse, Lane picks a second card from the stack. “In the novel _The Hobbi--_ ”

“Nope,” Paris cuts her off sharply. She vehemently refuses to get into fantasy or sci-fi or whatever crap is about to be introduced. “No. Just no.” She turns to face Rory. “You. Ask me something.”

Lane throws her hands exasperatedly into the air. “Do you guys even _need_ me?” 

Rory shoots Lane an apologetic glance. “Alrighty. Well, let’s start with an easy one.” She pauses, presumable in an attempt to compose a question. “In _Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland_ , one of the most well-known characters is the Mad Hatter--”

“Wrong,” Paris corrects. “The character’s not actually _ever_ referred to in the book as the Mad Hatter. That came around later.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “Fine. The _Hatter_.” Paris smirks in satisfaction. “Where did the idea for that character come from?”

Paris is almost at a loss-- _almost_ \-- before it clicks. _Nice try, Gilmore._ “Back in the day, there were all sorts of toxins and crap in hat factories. Since the hatters were dumbasses, they got all this mercury poisoning, which made them insane. That’s the rumor, anyways.” Rory’s face falls slightly; evidently, she had considered herself as having stumped Paris. 

“Because everybody knows that,” Lane mutters under her breath. “ _The Hobbit_ isn’t real literature! Give me homicidal playing cards!”

“Exactly,” says Paris crisply. “So glad you understand.” She returns her gaze to Rory. “Next question.”

“Seriously, though,” maintains Lane, “that book _traumatized_ me.” 

Paris can hardly argue with this; _Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland_ really is creepy as hell. She stays quiet nonetheless.

The rest of Paris’s literature-based trivia goes about as expected: however pretentious the literary references Rory can come up with, Paris always answers without skipping a beat. Actually, the more pretentious the question, the easier it is to answer. It’s only when Rory gets frustrated and brings up _The Cat In The Hat_ on question five (because of course they surpass the allotted three) that Paris is unable to answer. 

“Hey, no fair,” she protests. “You _know_ I have no childhood. That was a deliberate maneuver, thank you very much.” 

Rory, looking very smug, leans across the ledge of the booth and says, “I never said it _wasn’t_ a deliberate maneuver. Still fair game, Geller.” 

“I want another question,” Paris demands. 

“Uh, could you guys go somewhere else?” Lane asks. “Since you’re not, y’know, actually using my questions...or any of the other provided material…”

“But I need a victory prize,” protests Paris.

“You haven’t even won yet!” Rory interjects. 

“I’ll give whoever wins a stuffed animal later,” Lane agrees, “but for now, other people want to play trivia, too.” 

“Poor them,” says Paris under her breath, referencing the stack of cards. 

“Okay,” Rory relents. “Bye, Lane! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You too. Later, guys!” Lane waves at them as they wander away from the booth. 

“Another question,” demands Paris.

“No, thanks. I think I’ll answer _my_ questions now.”

“I need another one. We were supposed to get _six.”_

“In all. We were only supposed to get three literary ones.”

“Well, _clearly,_ the literary ones are the only ones that actually matter. One more?” 

“No.”

“You’re just afraid I’ll get it right.”

This is what does it: Rory turns to look at Paris with raised eyebrows, her lips pressed firmly together in her determination.

“Alright,” she caves. “Just give me a second to think of a good one.”

They keep walking. Paris, as she considers what questions she could ask of Rory when the time comes, looks at the people around them. They all seem to be having fun. There’s a toddler who’s parent holds a bag of kettle corn easily twice his size. Every so often, the toddler will reach out with chubby little hands and try to grab a handful. On these occasions, the parent will relinquish a small portion of the treat.

She looks at a second family. There’s a man and a woman, and their two children. One of them seems to be about thirteen, while the younger of the two can’t be any older than seven. The latter has face paint on so that she looks like a tiger. At least, she’s supposed to. The face painting job is a mild catastrophe. She’s pestering her father about getting a goldfish from the fair while he makes desperate yet unsuccessful attempts to explain that none of the games actually offer fish for prizes. 

It’s really quite amusing to watch. A little-known fact about Paris is that she actually _does_ like kids. Her nanny has a few, and it’s fun to read to them. They treat her like some sort of all-knowing creature; they don’t know any better, after all. 

Kids are one thing, but Paris is delighted when a large, fluffy, black dog wanders their way, a large, pink tongue lolling out of its mouth with enthusiasm. Paris reaches out a hand to pet it, then hesitating. It’s not her dog. Plus, she has a reputation to uphold as a hardass.

“You can pet him,” Rory assures her upon seeing the gesture. “That’s Nutter Butter. He’s Tom’s dog. I know he’s massive, but he’s really friendly.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Paris scoffs. “And-- I’m sorry-- _Nutter Butter?_ What kind of a name is _that?_ The poor thing.” 

Despite the dog’s horrendous title, Paris pets him. He’s really soft, and his eyes widen in joy when Paris scratches behind his ears.

“I want to take him home,” Paris announces. “With a name like Nutter Butter, he’s clearly living in an unhappy environment.”

“Oh, Tom spoils him,” Rory assures her. “His wife makes him these homemade peanut butter treats. They’re so gourmet that _I_ would eat them. They treat him like a son. Adorable. It’s almost worth the silly name.” 

Nutter Butter dips his gargantuan head down to Paris’s feet and begins to lick her ankles.

“Okay, I’m over it,” Paris decides, taking a step back. Nutter Butter follows, continuing his pursuit of grabbing her sock in his teeth. 

Rory laughs. “It’s okay, NB. She doesn’t mean it.” She talks to the dog in a secretive whisper, kneeling down to rub his back and getting her face slurped as a consequence. Despite being soaked, Paris’s socks have survived the encounter. 

“Where even is Tom?” Paris wants to know. “He should be supervising.” 

“Somewhere around here. Nutter Butter never wanders far from his people.” 

Soon, the big dog gives up his pursuit and searches for affection elsewhere. Rory looks at Paris with a sly grin. “I didn’t know you liked dogs. I always sort of assumed you boiled puppies in your spare time.”

Paris wraps her arms around her chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Well, I don’t. Boil puppies. Or like dogs, for that matter. At least, not _that_ much.”

Paris has never had a dog, but she’s bonded with a couple whilst volunteering at the animal shelter over summers. Rather, she had back in fifth grade; she’s since learned not to get too attached to shelter dogs, mostly thanks to the unfortunate fate of a pug called Eggs Benedict (seriously, what’s with people and stupid dog names?).

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Rory says, shoving Paris playfully. Paris gives her a lackluster sort of glare, but the effect is lessened by the way she’s smiling. 

“We’re getting off topic. You were thinking of another trivia question?” 

To her mortification, Paris actually gets the next question, a reference to some obscure fact from _The Great Gatsby_ that you could miss in the novel by blinking at the wrong time, incorrect.

“I knew _that_ ,” she maintains nonetheless. “I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security.”

“Really.” Rory seems rather unimpressed. “Now, hit me with a question, because I know you’ve already thought of, like, ten billion.” 

“Okay,” says Paris, making no effort to deny the last part. “Huh. What’s your favorite Shakespaerean sonnet?” 

“That’s not even a trivia question,” Rory points out.

“No, you’re right. It’s me getting to know you. Now answer the question, damn it.” 

“Sonnet 116,” announces Rory, looking at Paris with a smug grin. “I daresay it’s your favorite, too, after that little performance-- oh, geez, I don’t even remember how long ago it was.” 

They’ve walked away from the festival, and are now just leisurely strolling the streets of Stars Hollow. Rory is steering her towards Luke’s. 

_“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,"_ recites Paris. Admittedly, she’s feeling rather reminiscent. It’s been too long since she’d been violently whispering the same into Rory’s ear; she honestly forgets what, exactly, her goal had been with that one. 

_“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,”_ Rory continues, smiling at Paris, _“or bends with the remover to remove.”_

They’ve reached Luke’s. It’s not quite late enough to get dark, even though it’s already around six. Paris typically despises long summer days; there’s no excuse to go to bed early, and when you’re expected to get up at five each morning, going to bed at the pathetically early hour of nine is pivotal for retaining one’s sanity. Besides, Ben Franklin, despite some rather questionable decisions (the guy had kept corpses in his basement, for Christ’s sake) had been right about one thing: _early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise._

Paris, while certainly a fan of the idea of being healthy, wealthy, and wise, can’t help but think that if she could spend every evening with Rory like this-- walking around town, laughing, quizzing one another on literary knowledge and eating foods of questionable nutritional value-- she wouldn’t mind the later nights quite so much. 

Paris can’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun in a single day. Usually, fun for her is crushing some poor kid in debate. A Jane Austen marathon in bed under a pile of blankets large enough to potentially crush her. Not _this_. And yet, there’s something about being with Rory that just makes her so happy. Happy, Paris thinks, is such a childish word, but she can’t think of any other way to describe the feeling. 

“Sit?” suggests Rory, patting a bench outside of Luke’s. “If you’re cold, we can head inside. I just want to make sure my mom sees us when she comes.” 

“Sure,” Paris agrees, taking a seat next to Rory on the bench. It _has_ been getting a little bit colder; the heat from earlier seems to have been short-lived. Even in summer, Connecticut is Connecticut, which means that, having neglected to bring a sweatshirt, Paris is a little bit cold. 

She tries to hide it, but maybe Rory notices her grimace or the slight shivering, and suddenly she’s pulling her sweater over her head. 

“Here. Put this on,” she offers. 

Something about the gesture is so genuine and considerate that Paris is determined to refuse. 

“But now you’ll be cold,” Paris objects. “I’m fine.”

“When have _you_ ever been concerned with _my_ wellbeing?” Rory teases gently. She nudges Paris. “Put it on.” 

“No.”

“Okay, then,” Rory concludes. She pulls open the opening of the sweater, preparing to slip it back on.

“Oh, give me that,” Paris scoffs, snatching it from her hands. Rory gives a happy grin as Paris pulls the sweater over her own head.

A bit small. Warm. Slightly itchy, but soft. Paris likes it more than most of her own sweaters.

“You fell for my scheme,” declares Rory triumphantly.

“Did _not_ ,” Paris objects. “You were just about to give up. I just wanted you to know that I _could_ have won that argument. If I’d wanted to. But I actually _am_ cold.” 

“Whatever you say,” hums Rory, settling against the back of the bench. She looks pretty, what with the wind buffeting her hair and the slight flush in her cheeks from the cold. They sit together for a second, Paris fidgeting with the cuffs of Rory’s sweater between her fingers. 

And suddenly, the affection is so strong that Paris feels, in that moment, that Rory just _has_ to know. Know how strongly Paris feels about her. Maybe it’s the part of her that’s scared that if she doesn’t say something now, she’ll never get another opportunity. Or maybe it’s the part of her that could never resist a challenge. Either way, Paris is determined, and a determined Paris _cannot_ be deterred. 

“Hey, Rory?” There’s a slight tremor in her voice.

Rory turns from where she had been more or less just staring into the distance to look at Paris. Judging from the slight frown on her face, she knows something’s up. _There’s no turning back now_. “Yeah?” 

“I just…” Paris falters, unsure how to continue. “I don’t think I’ve ever really told you how much I appreciate you.”

Rory relaxes, and her frown fades into the hint of a smile. It’s not really what one would usually classify as a smile, but somehow it conveys just as much joy as a wide-lipped, toothy grin would have. It’s nice. “Aw, thanks. I’m glad.” 

“I mean,” Paris rambles on, “you put up with all of my crap. Not just anybody could do that.”

“That’s very true,” Rory allows. “I like you, too, Par. I don’t just put up with you. I like being with you. That’s why I invited you here in the first place.” She gestures around herself and towards the festival. 

“No. I don’t think you _get_ it. I...I _really_ like you. Too much.”

Rory’s eyes widen with a puppy-like sort of innocence. “Well, I really like you, too. You’re my best friend. Was that what you wanted to hear?”

Paris opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t say it. It’s not just that she’s scared, or she doesn’t want to; it’s as though she physically can’t speak, because her throat is too dry for it. Too dry to say _I want to date you_ or _I think that you’re pretty_ or _I want you as more than a friend_ or anything along those lines. 

_You’re my best friend._

She doesn’t say it. Instead, she raises shaky hands to Rory’s cheeks and leans in to kiss her. 

It’s not Paris’s first kiss. She’s kissed Tristan twice now, after all, but both times had meant nothing more than social status (not to mention the first having occurred in sixth grade). As it turns out, it’s not always the first kiss that’s special. 

Everybody always says that the third time’s the charm. This is the first time that this particular idiom seems to hold any merit. 

At first, Rory gives no indication as to whether or not she approves of this particular development. She makes no move to dodge, despite Paris giving her plenty of forewarning in the form of an extended period of time spent leaning in. But Rory also doesn’t display the behavior of somebody who’s about to be kissed. She just sits there, looking pretty and quite kissable. So, really, it’s sort of hard to determine Rory’s opinion on the subject; at least, not until they finally touch and Rory’s lips part slightly. The movement is very subtle, but it’s all the permission Paris needs to deepen the kiss. 

Rory even kisses like a Disney princess, apparently. Not that Paris has ever kissed a Disney princess before, but it’s the kind of light, romantic kiss that could be easily featured in a Disney movie. 

But who is Paris kidding? She’s no Prince Charming. Rory looks awestruck all the same when Paris gently pulls away. She realizes with a pause that her hands are still on Rory’s face. Her body warmth has seeped into the bitter cold of Paris’s hands, warming them with a numb tingle.

The reality of the situation comes crashing down on Paris like a bucket of cold ice water. _Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Fuck._

Ultimately, the only thing that saves Paris from epically panicking is Lorelai cheerily skipping up to them, arms full of neon stuffed animals and a goofy, oblivious grin on her face. 

“Hey, ladies! Have fun?” She takes a moment to wait for either girl to answer. Neither of them do. “Great! Let’s get some dinner. Luke’s got the hook-up on some great burgers.” She adds the last part in a conspiratorial whisper, holding her hand out in front of her face as if telling a scandalous secret.

Rory looks at Paris, eyes wide and incredulous. Paris returns the expression as Lorelai jovially throws open the door, beckoning them both inside. Then, Rory giggles nervously and mimes wiping her hand across her mouth. Paris doesn’t exactly get it until she notices that Rory’s mouth has exceptionally less lip gloss than it had before. Her face goes even warmer, despite previous convictions that such a thing would not have been possible.

Of course, it wouldn’t be the _weirdest_ thing for Lorelai to notice Paris wearing Rory’s lip gloss-- sharing is caring, after all, and straight girls can get away with quite a bit of seemingly romantic behavior on the premise of being gal pals-- but she figures she’s better safe than sorry, so she drags a sleeve clumsily over her mouth.

“You kids coming?” hollers Lorelai from the inside of Luke’s.

“Uh, yeah!” Rory’s voice is slightly strained, but, all in all, she’s not doing the _worst_ job of pretending that everything is normal. It doesn’t sound like she’s been out hiding a body, at any rate. “We’ll be right there!” 

Rory gets up from the bench accordingly, following her mother through the doors of the diner. 

Meanwhile, Paris’s heart is still beating at _way_ too many miles per hour as she stares down at the smear of lip gloss she’s stained the sleeve of Rory’s sweater. It’s the visual that will stay with her most prominently when she thinks about this day later in life. 

_Shit. What the hell did I just do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back. Excuse any typos or silly errors, I've edited this chapter more than I have any of the others but I'm sure there's still something.
> 
> Fun fact: this chapter was the one that I rewrote the most, alongside 5. It's just that every so often I'll write something that just doesn't sit right or takes the story in a completely wrong direction and then I do a rewrite. So the first draft of this chapter was, like, really really angsty in the second half and I don't even know why? It was crazy dawg. I like this much better :) 
> 
> If you were looking forward to the town meeting at all, that's coming in the next chapter. I intended for Paris's visit to Stars Hollow to be a whole chapter but my brain said nope so we're splitting it into two.
> 
> edit: a couple of people have expressed an interest in hearing this fic's playlist (just inspiration, stuff to listen to while I write) so here it is. prepare yourself for lots of girl in red. let me know if the link doesn't work for whatever reason 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2R1ZYq3QKlWJPyvFOlbTVA?si=nFvIR_3TRI2WbYKXOeM9aQ


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Welcome back. New chapter. This one is from Rory's perspective because I felt like it. More notes at the end

The dinner that follows the anomaly that had come in the form of Paris kissing Rory (because _that_ happened) is one of the most awkward which Rory has ever experienced. And she’s been to a _lot_ of Friday Night Dinners with her grandparents, to the point where it feels like the _n_ and the _d_ must be capitalized alongside the _f_. 

The thing is, Lorelai does not appear to notice said awkwardness whatsoever. Luke seems to understand-- he gives Rory a sympathetic glance every time he goes to refill her Coke or supply ranch dressing to go with her french fries-- but Lorelai is just happily rambling on about...whatever it is she’s talking about, Rory has quite honestly lost track. It really seems like she’s off in her own world. 

One of the main reasons that Rory knows the situation is awkward is that Paris is eating a burger. This is about as shocking an event as when Michel deigns to eat a burger. Usually, when Rory wants to get Paris to eat something unhealthy, it takes quite a bit of dedicated pestering. This time, no pestering had been required. Paris just stares obediently down at her burger. She takes a bite every so often, but mostly she just sips at the tall glass of ice water with which Luke has provided her, swirling the straw around and consequently jostling the ice. 

So yeah: _that’s_ how you know a situation is awkward, when not even Paris can bring herself to complain. 

The only good thing about the whole situation is that Lorelai is sat between Rory and Paris. _Is_ that a good thing? Maybe. It’s a decent enough buffer for the tension but, at the same time, it makes it seem like they’re avoiding one another. Rory really _isn’t_ trying to avoid Paris. In fact, she’d really like to just talk things all out. See where they stand. 

Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem like something that’s going to happen anytime soon. Hopefully they’ll be able to catch a moment alone after the town meeting, once they’ve once more reached the Gilmore household and are preparing to drive Paris back to Hartford. Then again, whether or not Paris will even want to acknowledge the incident is debatable. She is, after all, Paris, and has a tendency to shut down whenever she feels emotionally vulnerable. Rory will try her luck anyways. 

For now, Rory busies herself with the one task she’s always been good at, this being eating. She’s on her third Coke. She’s certain that, if not for the events of the past hour, Paris would be yelling at her for ruining her arteries or making her heart want to form a tango line with her ribs right out of her mouth or something. Rory’s never really concerned herself with the details (though she’s fairly certain that if her heart had wanted to tango its way out of her chest it would have done so a good forty minutes ago). 

“...right, Rory?” says Lorelai at one point.

“Mhm,” Rory agrees patiently. This is, evidently, ample permission for Lorelai to continue her happy blithering. 

She looks back to Paris. 

It’s a strange sight. For one, Paris is wearing what has quickly become one of Rory’s favorite sweaters. It’s not like Paris in sweaters is unusual, by any means. In fact, it seems like they’re just what she wears outside of Chilton-- from what little of her Rory’s seen beyond an educational context, anyways.

No, what makes it so strange is the fact that she’s wearing _Rory’s_ sweater. Rory is vaguely reminded of the girls in the high school rom-coms that wear their boyfriend’s letterman jackets. _Is that this?_ Rory has to wonder. The thought has her blushing slightly. 

Maybe that’s how Paris had interpreted it. Maybe it had been the catalyst for Paris deciding to kiss Rory. Rory dismisses this thought upon remembering that Paris most certainly hasn’t seen enough high school rom-coms to make the same connection that she had. Still, the gesture may have been interpreted in a romantic sense.

And then the thought occurs to Rory that maybe, such an interpretation wouldn’t have been entirely inaccurate. _Had_ she been flirting with Paris by offering her the sweater? Because, frankly, Rory has no idea. 

There’s no denying that Rory’s idea to invite Paris to Stars Hollow in the first place had been in light of having finally realized her more-than-platonic feelings for her ex arch-nemesis. Okay, fine: it had been Rory’s way of asking Paris out. On a date. Even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself at the time.

The thing is, regardless of Rory’s intentions, it’s _not_ a date. Not a date because, even if Rory sees it as a date, she had never exactly given Paris the memo. 

Then again, if Paris had seen it fit to kiss her, she _had_ gotten the memo. Then again, it could always have been an impulsive decision.

Rory, after giving it much thought, decides that she will never know and moves on to another question: does Paris regret it? Is she overthinking it as much as Rory is, or is this just a normal Thursday for her? Had Paris even enjoyed it? Is she mortified? Or, for that matter, ever going to talk to Rory ever again? 

She’s jerked out of her thoughts by Lorelai amusedly snapping a hand in front of her face.

“Hello? Rory? You in there?” The corner of a playful, somewhat confused smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth. 

“Uh, y-yeah,” Rory stutters, jumping in her seat. She very nearly knocks over her Coke. 

“Well, I was just saying that we need to get over to the town meeting soon.”

“Yeah, Rory,” adds Paris snarkily. It’s only a small fraction of her usual snark, but Rory’s glad to hear it. It’s what finally snaps her out of her weird mood. 

“Right,” Rory agrees. She turns to Luke, who’s currently flipping some pancakes because apparently he does all-day breakfast now. “Hey. Luke. You comin’?”

Luke looks up from the pancakes, the expectant stares of two Gilmores and Paris commanding his attention. “To the meeting?”

“Yeah,” Rory confirms. 

“Oh, I’ll just stay here, I need to get started with tomorrow’s baking--” begins Luke, only to be interrupted all too gleefully by Lorelai.

“But _Luuuuke,”_ she begs, leaning over the counter to assault him with her puppy eyes, “you _never_ come to town meetings!” 

“You’re right, I don’t,” Luke says, looking quite pained as he flips the finished pancake onto a large plate and hands it off to Caesar. “That would be because I really don’t like them.”

“Should I be scared?” Paris wants to know.

 _“Yes.”_ Luke points his spatula in Paris’s direction. “A hundred times yes.” 

“Okay. I was wondering, because everybody here seems like a bit of a lunatic.” Caesar shoots Paris a glare from where he’s waiting on a table. “Hey, just saying. I call it like I see it.” 

“They are,” confirms Luke. “But, hey, your funeral.” 

“We can have a mass burial if you come, too,” Lorelai pleads, expertly maneuvering the conversation back to her initial point. 

“Okay, ew,” Paris mutters. 

“You’ll be dead, so I don’t see why you should care,” Rory argues. 

“I already hate sick people. Imagine how I feel about dead people.”

“And you say you want to be a doctor.”

“What about it?”

Rory sighs her resignation, turning back to her drink and finishing it in one expert gulp. At least she and Paris are back to having normal conversation. It’s progress. 

“You’ll be dead, too,” Lorelai sides with Rory. “When one’s dead, I would imagine that other corpses would lose their grossness.” 

“So? Humanity disgusts me and I’m human,” Paris counters. It’s a normal enough thing for her to say, but it feels a little off-kilter without her usual cocky _I-just-won-an-argument_ grin. 

“Yikes. _Touché_ .” Lorelai, still oblivious, turns back to Luke. “ _Please_ come.” 

Luke has that expression on his face that means he’s just about to crack and let Lorelai have her way, but that he’s going to spend another minute or two refusing just for dignity’s sake. It’s a look he wears amusingly often, given how easily he caves to Lorelai’s exhausting at best whims. 

It’s like how in some cultures, you have to refuse an offer a couple of times before accepting it just to be polite, only here Luke is refusing for the sake of maintaining his status as the town grouch. 

Usually Rory would, at this point, rejoin her mother in pestering the poor man, but today she just sits back and watches; Luke will give in eventually, and it’s a fun display. 

A fun display, but one that Rory has a hard time focusing on. She can feel Paris’s presence next to her, and it takes all the self-control in the world not to just keep glancing at her. All the self-control in the world is not, unfortunately, an amount which Rory has, so she does.

Whatever Paris is thinking, she’s schooling her expressions very well. If it were anybody but Paris, who seems to have a loud opinion on everything, Rory would assume that it’s just their resting face, but she knows Paris a little too well for that. 

It’s impossible, trying to guess at what Paris is thinking. This statement can be applied to most Paris-related scenarios, but is especially aggravating today. 

Maybe Paris just isn’t freaking out over this whole ordeal like Rory is. Maybe the painful awkwardness is just in her head. Or maybe it’s just typical post-kiss awkwardness as opposed to _I just kissed one of my best friends and oh shit, she’s female_ awkwardness. Either brand of awkwardness would be-- well, awkward, but the former significantly less so. Rory herself is certainly experiencing the former variety of awkwardness but is still cycling between the two. Both definitely seem appropriate. 

The thing is, Rory hadn’t even _known_ that she’d been crushing on Paris until the last time they’d seen one another...okay, so that had been last month, but it’s still a new development. Certainly too new for _this._ Then again, is it? Dean, after all, had first kissed her pretty soon after their first meeting. Rory has known Paris for a very long time, but it’s different, Dean having alluded to romantic intentions from the very beginning. Paris has been alluding to romantic intentions since-- well, never. Or maybe Rory just hasn’t noticed. 

There’s another thing. When she’d first considered the possibility of a relationship with Paris-- not seriously, as it had seemed impossible at the time-- there had been that niggling feeling of betrayal in light of her relationship with Dean having been severed fairly recently (not _that_ recently anymore, but recently enough). Now that Paris has actually kissed her, Rory feels no Dean-guilt whatsoever. Hell, she hadn’t even thought about Dean until just now, and it’s already been precisely an hour and two minutes since the kissing had occurred (what? Rory has a watch). 

Rory takes another glance at Paris, the face of whom is still utterly unreadable. Then she looks at how Paris is wearing her sweater, her hands drowning in the sleeves despite Rory’s clothes being a whole size smaller than hers. Rory smiles, holding back a giggle which she is sure would be construed as creepy. And maybe she’s imagining things, but she thinks she sees Paris blush. 

***

“Alright.” Taylor holds his head high as he addresses the town (or, at least, those who have nothing better to do tonight). He has, by some means, procured a large whiteboard and one of those pointers with rubber fingers at the end that characterize every kindergarten classroom. He opens his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

“What’s with the weird finger thingy?” Morey hollers, his voice reverberating off the walls.

“Well--” Taylor starts.

“Yeah,” howls Babette in support of her husband. “What was wrong with the old pointy thing?”

Taylor’s brow creases in frustration. He closes his eyes, and Rory thinks she hears him mutter _ohm_ a couple of times before he opens them back up with a patient smile.

“Well, Babette, Morey, I just thought it would be a nice change of pace,” he explains. 

“I think it’s just weird,” Luke mutters, turning to Rory for endorsement.

“Mr. Danes, would you like to express an opinion?” snarks Taylor from the front, rising to his tiptoes to get a closer look at Luke.

“Yes, please.”

“Well, Mr. Danes,” Taylor continues, injecting all of the condescension possible into his voice, “I’ve decided to implement a new rule. Kirk, would you?”

Kirk nods accordingly, pulling from his pocket a stack of neon pink cardstock which he hands to Miss Patty, who sits in the front. “Take one, pass it down,” he calls to the group. 

“What is this?” Luke demands in an indignant mutter, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Pink cards--” Taylor starts.

“Yeah, no shit,” Gypsy snorts from her seat. Rory notices Paris shooting her a glance of approval.

“Would all of you please let me _finish?”_ Taylor snaps, his face having gone tomato red. He takes a deep breath. _“Ohm…”_ He opens his eyes and smiles a large, forced smile. “Every citizen, at the beginning of each meeting, will receive a pink card, which can be offered to Kirk over here in exchange for their opinion. Only one pink card will be allotted per townsperson.” 

“That’s bullshit,” calls Paris, who apparently has no qualms with voicing an opinion without a pink card, as she rises from her seat. “Hate to break it to you, but we live in a _democracy,_ old dude. The people have a voice. It’s the very first amendment in the Constitution.”

Evidently satisfied with her input, Paris sits down with a pleased smirk as the town goes into an uproar of agreement. Rory shoots her an appreciative smile and the smirk fades. Paris looks away. 

“Please, quiet,” calls Kirk right as Taylor begins aggressively _ohm_ -ing. He waves his arms in the air as if this will help. The pink cards have, by this point, reached the spot at the back where the four of them are sitting. Rory tucks hers in her pocket. Paris is not offered one. When asked, Kirk explains in a pale imitation of that same condescension Taylor had employed earlier that this is because, along with having already given an opinion, she’s not even a Stars Hollow citizen. 

Paris looks as though she’s about to fight him on this, but Rory puts a placating hand over her wrist (she stops before they actually make contact) and Paris stops entirely.

“Okey-dokey.” Taylor, looking pleased to have regained control of the room, scribbles something down onto the white board. “Let’s start with old business. That would be the summer festival. How do we think that went?” Everybody is silent. Taylor looks around, seemingly irritated. “Anyone?” 

“Well, it’s really no surprise that nobody is offering input,” Kirk chimes in. “They don’t want to waste their precious pink cards.”

Taylor sucks in a deep, exasperated breath. “Okay. Fine. No pink cards necessary _this_ time.”

Upon hearing this, Stars Hollow jumps into action, starting with Lorelai.

“I think we need some better face painters next time,” she calls. “You know I love the middle schoolers--” she shoots the local middle school teacher an apologetic glance “-- but they aren’t really competent in that area.”

One look into the crowd, a good half of which have had their facial features maimed with smears of all colors, renders Taylor unable to argue. He frowns. “That would be breaking the budget,” he points out. “How do we suggest we raise funds for that?”

“The troubadour could start taking donations,” somebody offers. Everybody turns to look at the troubadour, who looks utterly scandalized. 

“I’m sorry, do you _want_ to soil my artistic integrity?” he demands. “I’m not a sellout, thanks.”

“Man’s got a point,” Lorelai agrees. 

“Do you idiots even know the definition of the word _troubadour?”_ Luke gives his input.

“I’m sure he’s not good enough to justify tips. Small town musicians never are,” Paris agrees. Everybody turns to scowl at her; the troubadour is well-loved. “What?” 

“Any alternate solutions?” Taylor asks.

“We could pull a small portion of funds from Miss Patty,” Tom suggests. “I’m pretty sure half of the money we give her doesn’t even go towards the dance classes.” 

“You’re in _my_ studio,” Miss Patty pipes up angrily, “but you won’t be for long if you keep disrespecting my use of the town funds. Right, Taylor?”

Taylor looks thoughtful, though, and doesn’t answer at first. Eventually he says, “all in favor of pulling partial funds from the dance classes to pay a professional face painter next year, say _aye.”_

Miss Patty looks rather hurt as a chorus of _ayes_ rings out.

“All in favor of keeping the middle schoolers in charge of face painting or finding alternate stipulations for a professional, say _nay,”_ Taylor continues.

“Nay,” Rory calls out, if just because Miss Patty’s dance classes are too prominent a part of her childhood for her to disrespect them. Fortunately, a little over half the town shares this sentiment. 

“I think the bad face painting adds to the charm of the event,” Kirk offers his opinion.

“I agree,” says Rory, earning her a questioning look from both Luke and Paris. Lorelai, despite better face painters having been her idea, doesn’t seem to care. 

“Alright,” hums Taylor, scribbling something down on the whiteboard. “Does anybody have anything else to say on the matter of this year’s summer festival?” 

Paris begins to say something about how they need better trivia questions.

“Hey, young woman,” Taylor interrupts, pointing an angry finger at her, “I don’t _see_ a pink card.”

“You said we didn’t need one,” Paris protests. “Besides. After you so violently refused to let me voice an opinion I’ve been forced to rebel.”

Rory has to crack a smile at this. 

“Oh, please,” says Taylor. “Who even _are_ you?”

“That’s Paris,” says Kirk helpfully.

“I _know,_ Kirk,” Taylor sighs. 

“Then why’d you ask?” 

Taylor buries his head in his hands, _ohm_ s a couple of ohms, before rising back up. 

“Who she _is,”_ Babette chimes in, “is living proof that the Gilmores can’t competently keep boyfriends.”

It takes Rory a moment to process that Babette has said this. In fact, she sits there in happy oblivion for a good two seconds thinking that she’s misheard, because there’s no way that Babette has _possibly_ actually said this.

 _I’ve probably misinterpreted,_ Rory decides. She’s making things up, _Babette may have said that but she probably means something totally different--_

“What do you mean?” asks Taylor, his brow furrowing in confusion.

 _Oh, good, now she’s gonna say what she_ actually _means and everything’s going to be fine--_

“I _mean,”_ says Babette, “that this Paris chick is Rory’s new rebound. Saw them kissin’ in front of Luke’s earlier. There had to be one, right? It’s been long enough after Dean.”

Paris has gone completely frozen, as has Lorelai. Luke just looks like he wants to leave. Rory can’t blame him as she digs a finger into her own palm only to find it warm and sticky. Her heart is racing far too fast.

“Ah.” Taylor nods dutifully. “Well, there’s another reason for us to be keeping an eye on her.” 

Everybody is murmuring between themselves. Taylor ignores both the horrified looks on the faces of both girls and the panicked hand gestures Gypsy is sending his way (at least she’s trying) and just plows on forward. 

“Here in Stars Hollow,” Taylor continues, “we take the safety of our youths very seriously, and I won’t have you breaking Rory’s heart or hurting her in any way.” 

Rory physically can’t move. Breath, either. Her throat has gone incredibly tight. All she can _really_ do is clutch onto the armrests of her seat with a vice-like grip and hope that this will all be over soon. The cherry on top of the whole awful sundae of a situation comes in the form of Dean leaning over his seat to raise his eyebrows at her, looking like a wounded puppy.

“Rory?”

“Okay, Taylor, Babette,” Lorelai cuts in roughly, looking for the first (scratch that, second) time in her life unamused by their antics, “I think that’s enough. What have I told you guys?”

“I know, we _don’t_ discuss peoples’ love lives at town meetings,” Taylor sighs with a pained grimace. 

“Eh, you’re just still worried we’re gonna bring up you and that Max guy,” Miss Patty chimes in.

“Of _course_ I’m worried about that,” Lorelai snaps. 

“If anything,” Taylor concludes, “he’s just further proof of you Gilmores being unable to keep steady romantic partners, which is why we have to closely monitor _this_ young woman.” He points his pointer at Paris. “Plus, she still might be a spy from Woodbury.” 

Paris has, rather impressively, kept an excellent poker face this whole time. _How is she not freaking out?_ Rory wonders. _How the hell can she_ breathe _right now?!_

If she _is_ freaking out, Paris is hiding it pretty damn well.

“Okay, stop harassing Lorelai,” orders Luke, holding up a hand in a _stop_ motion, “and stop harassing-- well, the whole-ass town. If you want to gossip among yourselves, that’s one thing. And I don’t love it, but it’s better than this, which is pretty much akin to having us all dress up like clowns and letting everybody smash pies into our faces one by one until we have no dignity left. All that goes to say...you shouldn’t.”

Dean, meanwhile, can’t stop looking at Rory with that same _look_ . Rory has to wonder why it even matters; they aren’t together anymore! Haven’t been for _months!_ They’ve been apart for longer than it had taken Dean to decide that he had fallen in love with her. This either says something about how long they’ve been apart or how quickly Dean had come to such a conclusion. Probably both. That floppy hair haunts her nonetheless as he disbelievingly questions, “Rory, is that true?” 

Rory is still incapable of movement. She still can't breathe, and her heart _still_ feels like it’s about to fucking explode. When she opens her mouth, she finds that her vocal chords are out of order, too. This is where her fight or flight instincts kick in. And, contrary to how Paris may be handling the situation, Rory will choose flight nine times out of ten. So as Dean continues, “I mean, it’s not, right?” with Clara’s small head now peeking over the seat to join him in his curiosity, Rory springs to her feet and sprints towards the entrance of the building at a speed unprecedented for any Gilmore. 

Rory grabs at the end of the sliding door, using all of her power to push at it. The unsanded wood digs at the tips of her fingers. She winces, finally heaving it aside with one final shove and letting a rush of cold air flow into the studio. She can feel everybody watching her. 

Having left her sweater with Paris, the cold bites at Rory’s fingers as she pulls them from the part of the door where splinters have skewered through the top couple of layers of her skin like toothpicks and throws herself through. The wind buffets at her face, but she keeps running. She’s not sure where she’s going, but it feels like she’s going to vomit if she tries to stop. 

Running has never really been Rory’s idea of a good time, and she typically tires out after a few seconds. Today, though, something is different. It’s got to be the adrenaline pounding through her like fire that lets her forget the feeling that somebody is driving a chisel into her lungs and just _run_. 

Later, Rory will have the thought that this panic would have made running the mile for school a hell of a lot easier. For now, it’s _really_ not funny. 

Eventually, her legs begin to ache unbearably, so she anchors herself to the nearest wall, breathing heavily as she brings herself to a halt, wiping a sweaty strand of hair from her face. 

Her heart slamming in her chest and her face burning, Rory takes a moment to catch her breath, looking around to discern her location. She is greeted with a tall building, a thin wooden cross atop it. The Stars Hollow Church. Meaning that she’s run fairly far. 

Then, Rory realizes that she’s left Paris-- undoubtedly in just as horrified a state as she is-- to the well-intentioned wrath of the town, and the guilt is just enough to drive her to tears. 

Rory slides down the wall of the building with a choked, somewhat exhausting sob, swiping at her eyes with her hand. She keeps her hand shielding her face; the wind only makes the tears sting more. 

It’s somewhat dark out, so Rory doesn’t have to worry about anybody seeing her. Instead, she just keeps to her spot, feeling awful for herself and for Paris and crying. 

Her other hand shakes uncontrollably, and when Rory pulls it from the wall she finds indents where the wall’s rough texture has dug into her palm. Between that and the wood, her hands are burning where they’re not numb from the cold. 

Why had Rory been so _stupid?_ She’s always driven a firm line between Stars Hollow Rory and Chilton Rory. Stars Hollow Rory is a sweet, kind girl who overeats and volunteers at town events and who can offer reassurance to anybody who needs it. Chilton Rory is driven. Determined, motivated. Nothing-- _nothing_ \-- can get in her way. But her two sides are like oil and water; they don’t mix. Shouldn’t. 

Rory has always done a seamless job of keeping her two lives separate. But now she’s gone and ruined it. Paris belongs to Chilton Rory, completely and wholly. But Rory had just _had_ to cross the line, and now she’s paying for it dearly.

The stupid part is, Rory _knows_ that nobody in Stars Hollow would have a problem with her dating Paris in this hypothetical scenario in which the two are, in fact, dating. They would make a big show of sizing her up, of course, but after that? They’d all love her, even if Paris far from shared the sentiment.

Not only would they be supportive, they’d be _aggressively_ supportive. Paint the whole damn town varying shades of rainbow levels of supportive. Rory gets a painful feeling in her gut at the thought of them knowing that she’s anything other than straight regardless, and something about that makes her cry even harder.

Then there’s Paris. Paris, who had been quite possibly even _less_ ready to be outed. Rory’s privacy has taken a sledgehammer, but so has _hers,_ and it’s all Rory’s fault for bringing Paris to Stars Hollow in the first place. 

_Then again, she was the one who kissed me in front of the whole town._

Then,

_I’m so fucking stupid._

Rory is busy marinating in her own horror and distress when she hears the sound of cautious footsteps. She jumps, giving a squeak as she presses herself even further against the wall, wiping her tears from her eyes hurriedly and consequently turning what little makeup she had bothered to apply into a smeary mess. 

She heaves a breath of relief upon seeing that it’s just Luke. He looks extremely uncomfortable, standing a good fifteen feet away from her as if she’ll bite if she takes one step further. Rory would be offended if not for the knowledge that this is just the effect that emotions have on him.

His hands are held up defensively, and he’s being extremely cautious.

“Oh.” Rory sniffs dejectedly, wiping the snot from under her nose with an arm. “Luke.”

“Errr, hi,” says Luke, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “So...ugh…” 

Rory smiles weakly, finding solace in Luke’s awkwardness. 

“Is the town meeting over?” she asks. Her voice sounds a little strained, but at least she can actually talk now. Rory looks around, trying to spot any of the other townspeople in the dark.

“Not, uh, not yet,” Luke replies. “Your mom is stalling because they all, uh, really want to apologize to you…” 

“And that would be a disaster,” Rory finishes. 

“Yeah, it really would,” Luke concludes. He takes off his baseball hat, running a hand through his hair before replacing it. 

Rory frowns, wondering why Lorelai is the one stalling and Luke is the one coming to get her. It really seems like it should be the other way around. Luke, as if reading her mind, hurriedly explains. “She has to, uh, drive your friend home later. Your mother isn’t a believer in throwing kids in random cabs, believe it or not.”

Rory, remembering the horrifically awkward situation in which she’s left Paris, buries her face in her hands with a moaned, “oh _God!”_ and another sob. Luke seems very alarmed. 

“Hey! Oh, shit. I mean crap. Uh. Don’t cry,” he tries, taking a tentative step forward. “I brought animal crackers!” he almost shouts when Rory continues to cry. 

This is enough to catch Rory’s attention; back when she was little, Luke always used to give her those bright pink frosted animal crackers whenever she and Lorelai came by the diner. They always bring Rory way back, the smell of them alone summoning a deep nostalgia for her time as an eight year-old. 

Rory lifts her head from her hands, keeping one under her nose to wipe away the mess of snot. She sniffles a little as she giggles. “Of course you did,” she says, smiling even more in her despair upon seeing how Luke is holding the box out to her like a peace offering. 

Luke looks beyond relieved as Rory takes them, clutching them protectively to her chest. “W-why do you even have these anymore?” she asks. “I know they’re n-not for you.” 

Luke shrugs as he mumbles his response. “Y’know, they had them on sale at the festival...reminded me of when you were little…” 

“Thank you.”

Rory doesn’t open the box; she doesn’t feel like she could eat. In fact, she’s already very much regretting the three Coke and unholy number of fries. Instead, she just presses it against herself like a lifeline as she shivers and shakes. One look at the red _25% off!_ sticker gracing the top confirms Luke’s explanation. They’re off-brand, just like Rory remembers. 

Luke, meanwhile, looks completely and utterly shocked that this has actually worked. 

“So, let’s get you to the diner. Or I could just drive you straight home. Either way, but your mom can only keep the crazies locked away for so long.” 

Rory considers her options. If she goes to Luke’s, she may never have another opportunity to talk to Paris ever again, because God knows they’ll avoid each other once school starts again. Logically, Rory knows that this would be bad, but in her current emotional state she can’t quite bring herself to care. When Paris is probably pissed off at her for suddenly becoming a marathon runner at the insinuation that they’re dating, and Lorelai probably has a million questions, the diner becomes a more appealing offer every second. 

“Diner,” says Rory decisively. She holds out a hand to Luke; seeing as her legs are both aching with exhaustion and tingling from having fallen asleep, they won’t be of much help in getting her into an upright position. She keeps one hand pressing the box of animal crackers protectively against herself.

Luke looks like he’s not quite sure what to do with the hand. He keeps looking from it to Rory’s face, as if trying to read her. Rory jerks her hand forward in an expectant gesture, and he finally takes it to pull her to her feet. 

Once her feet are flat on the ground, Rory nearly stumbles. She would have fallen, really, if not for Luke keeping her rooted to the ground. 

***

Luke has planted Rory upstairs on his couch. Rory has never actually been in the apartment above the diner before, and it would be a novelty if not for the circumstances. The box of animal crackers is still sitting in her lap. She has no actual intention of eating them.

“So...uh…” Luke paces fretfully in front of the couch, trying to think of something to say. Rory giggles at the sight, only for the reaction to pull another sob from her. Luke seems even more alarmed. 

“It’s okay,” Rory assures him, wiping a wrist over her face in yet another futile attempt to clean it. “W-we don’t have to talk about it.”

The relief on Luke’s face is almost comical, and he heaves a sigh. “Okay. Because, like, this has never really happened to me before…” 

“Me neither,” Rory agrees. Luke slaps a palm to his forehead.

“Ugh, of course not. Okay, sorry, that was stupid. Should I call your mom? She’s probably better at this.”

“No,” says Rory hurriedly, curling further into herself on the couch. “I mean, she’s probably driving,” she explains further when Luke looks caught off-guard. “Besides. I’ll talk to her when I get home.” 

Luke nods. Then he nods again, until he’s just stuck in some eternal loop of nodding. “Right.” He does a lap of speed-walking around the apartment before parking himself back in front of Rory. “Just. Uh. I feel like I should tell you that you can date whoever you want, you know? Not that you need my permission. Of course you don’t. But. You don’t need society’s permission, either. Not that society cares. I mean, they sort of do. I guess I mean...just not this society. Stars Hollow. Because Stars Hollow is _a_ society, if not society in general. They don’t care, you know. Actually, they were sort of horrified when they realized that you were upset.”

Rory nods. She’d sort of figured. 

“And,” Luke continues, “if they were wrong about Paris and this is actually a Dean thing--”

“Of course it’s not a Dean thing,” Rory cuts in, scowling at him. “You haven’t had to serve me extra strawberries on my pancakes for, like, two months! I’m not still hung up on him, you know. They’re wrong.” 

“Of course, of course,” Luke amends hurriedly, holding his hands protectively over his chest. “I guess what I’m trying to say-- Dean thing, Paris thing, whatever type of thing it may be-- it’s fine. It’s all fine. That’s all I’m saying.” He speaks slowly, as though trying to placate a rabid animal.

Rory nods slowly. She’s already beginning to regret having snapped at him, the anger having been short-lived. There’s a moment of painfully awkward silence before Rory speaks up again. 

“H-how’s Paris?”

Luke seems not to have expected this question, but is relieved by the topic switch nonetheless. “Oh. Huh. She seemed alright. Wasn’t really talking much, which is sorta odd.” 

“Good.” 

“So, should I…?” Luke points down the stairs with both hands. “I’ve got an annoying customer I’ve got to call. She keeps saying that I’m grinding her coffee beans wrong. She’ll tell me to grind it for espresso, and then I will, but then she’ll call me and say that I must have accidentally ground it too coarsely or something. She’s come back three times now. I keep _telling_ her that it’s not my damn fault, she’s just got a shi- _shoddy_ espresso machine. Get a new damn espresso maker! It’s not that hard, I sell the things!” He sucks in a deep breath. “So…”

Luke’s awkward rambling in the face of having to deal with other peoples’ feelings reminds Rory distinctly of Paris and how she does more or less the same thing. And it’s so, so cute. It’s cute when Luke does it, too, but in more of a cool uncle sort of way. With Paris, it makes Rory want to pull her into an extra intense hug and never let go. Not that that’s ever going to happen; not after events of the past couple of hours, anyways. 

“Whatever you want, Luke,” Rory assures him. The whole society spiel, while not having helped all that much, had been sweet. Sweet in a _let’s never talk about this again_ sort of way. 

“Good, good. If, uh, you need anything…” Luke trails off, apparently deciding that the rest is implied and that he would rather just scurry down the stairs to the diner than finish his sentence. 

“Thanks, Luke,” says Rory shakily, but Luke is already too far down to hear her. 

Rory sniffles again, pulling the throw blanket on the edge of Luke’s couch over herself and fumbling for the TV remote. _Survivor_ is playing reruns, with _Big Brother_ coming up in only a couple of minutes. This only makes Rory burst into tears all over again, remembering her plans to show Paris an episode when they got home. 

Rory is fully aware of how stupid it is, but she shuts off the television and chucks the remote at the wall nonetheless. She winces upon remembering that it’s not polite to throw other peoples’ remotes and other peoples’ walls. Thinking about what a bad houseguest she is has Rory crying even harder; it seems that when you’re upset, the most inconsequential things-- the things that would have you shrugging indifferently or even laughing under different circumstances-- have you distraught. 

Remembering how cold her hands are, Rory pulls one towards her mouth and breathes on it. It seems to work, so she does it again. The more feeling that pulses through her fingers, the more they sting. Wincing with pain, Rory slides her hands underneath the blanket, sitting on one of them to further thaw it. She stays that way for a little while before remembering the animal crackers.

Rory wonders for a brief moment whether or not she’s actually supposed to eat them before dismissing the thought as silly; Luke hadn’t just given her a box of animal crackers for the hell of it. They’re hers. 

She reaches a hand towards her box, pushing the flaps of the top open. Inside sits a thin, plastic bag that she can see the cookies through. They’re a shade of neon pink that reminds Rory of her childhood with tiny, spherical sprinkles on top. The animals are a little misshapen, just like she remembers them. 

It’s comforting, in a way, to know that Rory is still the same kid that could pound these things down by the bucketful and then run around on a sugar high of grand proportions for hours afterwards. Nothing’s changed, really. 

Rory reaches to pull the plastic open. She fails the first time, fingers still slightly numb and trembling hard enough to make the task more difficult than it reasonably should be. On the third try, the bag rips open and the nostalgic scent rushes into the air. Rory smiles weakly, taking one of them in her hand. She gives it an experimental nibble before remembering that her appetite has been desecrated and setting the thing, barely scathed, on Luke’s table. The box follows shortly, Rory staring reminiscently at both. 

Once Luke decides that Rory is no longer a ticking time bomb of female emotion, he will come back to get her and drive her back home in his truck. Then, Rory will have to wait for her mother to return, at which point she will be badgered with questions. Even if she isn’t, Lorelai will want to.

Besides, who knows how much Paris has told Lorelai? There’s really no telling with her. The unpredictability is a significant part of what had drawn Rory to Paris in the first place, even if it’s sort of screwing her over at the moment. 

For now, Rory doesn’t have to worry about any of that. Instead she can just sit on Luke’s couch and inhale the scent of animal crackers until she feels alright. 

***

“Well, that was awkward,” announces Lorelai as she walks into the house. Rory had gotten back a half an hour ago, and has been sitting on the couch huddled in blankets and trying not to think too hard ever since. Really, not too much of an improvement from the brief period she’d spent on top of Luke’s.

“Mhm,” says Rory noncommittally without looking at her mother, because she really wants nothing more than to head to bed without having any sort of heart-to-heart. Maybe it’s Paris rubbing off on her, but she’s really not in the mood. 

Lorelai carefully pries a boot from her foot, then the other before she wanders over to the couch and perches herself next to Rory. “Nice kid, you know. Paris, I mean.”

Rory audibly snorts at this; usually whenever Lorelai says anything along these lines, it’s sarcastic. “Good one.” 

“No, I’m being serious,” Lorelai maintains, which is enough of a curiosity that Rory glances her way. “She told me that she really likes Stars Hollow and that I seem like a really nice mother.”

“You’re kidding,” Rory deadpans, because usually when Paris says stuff like this, she’s actually saying _fuck you_ and the nice stuff is just subtext. Either that or she’s being sarcastic. Then again… 

_I don’t think I’ve ever really told you how much I appreciate you._

“Not kidding,” says Lorelai. “Don’t get me wrong, I like kidding. It’s one of my favorite pastimes. But right now, I’m not. She said all that. You know what else she said?” 

Rory’s sure that whatever it is, it’ll open up a whole new can of worms. The special, extra squishy kind. That would be a problem, because she’s already drowning in them. Worms, that is. Then again, when one is up to their waist in worms, what’s a couple more? Plus, Rory actually _is_ kind of curious. “What else did she say?” 

“She said that she really likes you and that she kissed you on the bench in front of Luke’s. She also said that she thinks you’re going to friend-zone her, and to tell you that there’s really no need, because she already considers herself friend-zoned. And that she’s considering kicking you off the paper when school starts again because she’s just that mortified.”

“What?” Rory scowls. “How unprofessional is _that?_ I’m one of her best writers, anyways. _”_

“That’s what I said,” Lorelai agrees. “Keep your personal life and your work life separate. Then she told me to keep her personal life and my vocal chords separate.”

“So then why are you telling me this?”

Lorelai shrugs. “It’s sorta part of the understanding. Anything she tells me, she tells you by extension. I even gave her her _Miranda_ warnings before she started talking. Mostly because she asked for them. The first half, anyways, because it would be a little weird if she hires a lawyer over this. Then she told me that I was quoting everything wrong and that she hopes I never kill anyone because I would be-- her words-- _totally screwed_. Like I said, nice kid. Smart, too.” 

This draws a weak giggle from Rory, because asking for one’s _Miranda_ warnings before a personal conversation is just about the most Paris thing she’s ever heard. Enough so that she has to take a deep breath to collect herself.

“She really told you all that? It took me literal _months_ to convince her to say anything nonviolent towards me. Like, she wouldn’t have even told me her favorite color for a good two weeks.” Somehow, it makes Rory feel even worse. 

“Well, dear,” Lorelai muses, running an affectionate hand through Rory’s hair, “do you really think that’s a coincidence?”

Rory looks up at Lorelai questioningly. “W-what does that mean?” 

“What I mean is that maybe you...broke her in, in a sense.”

“Like a baseball glove?” Rory cringes. “You should know me well enough to know that sports references are beyond lost on me.” Lorelai cocks her head back in fond laughter. 

“Yeah, sort of. Maybe hanging around you taught her that not everything she tries to talk about her feelings with is gonna try and bite her head off.” 

“You say _everything_ like she’s the kind of person to have a heart-to-heart with her teddy bear.” 

Lorelai assaults her with a stern look, nose wrinkled. “You’re trying to change the topic,” she scolds, pointing an accusatory finger at Rory. “Don’t do that.” 

Rory groans. There’s a steadily growing knot in her stomach as she realizes that she really _had_ been trying to change the subject, if subconsciously. “You can’t blame me. This was just a really weird day. You’ve gotta admit it!” 

“I’m not going to deny you _that_ much,” Lorelai allows. 

They sit in an uncomfortable silence for a good ten minutes. Rory looks out the window and sees darkness. A couple of stars are still visible, if dim, in the sky. The Gilmore living room is vaguely visible by lamplight, nobody having bothered to flick on the light in the hall. For a moment, Rory is back with Paris, daylight streaming in through the glass as they watch _Survivor_ together, Paris scoffing at the contestants while Rory, one arm over her shoulder, laughs carelessly. Rory has the feeling that she’ll never get that back. With Paris, it’s always one step forward and two steps back; the only catch is that this time, it’s Rory’s own fault. 

And then she’s crying. _Again._ Which is stupid, because Rory isn’t even that much of a crier. Before today, her most recent incident of crying had been with Paris, over the breakup with Dean. Dean, about whom Rory can no longer care less. Whether she likes it or not, Paris has long since taken up the space in her heart she’d once reserved for Dean. Rory has fond memories of Dean, sure, but she doesn’t _miss_ him. Not really. 

Lorelai looks nothing if not sympathetic as Rory leans, rather pathetically, into her side.

“Ugh, I think I really fucked up,” she mumbles. Rory doesn’t typically swear around her mother, but Lorelai makes no comment. “I ran out like that. Now Paris isn’t ever going to talk to me _again,_ and it’s all my fault, because I got all weird and freaked out. I’m supposed to be the chill one, but Paris just sat there with her poker face, and I bet she felt horrible, too, but she was mature enough not to just sprint out the door. Unlike yours truly. Now she probably thinks that I don’t like gay people or something. Which isn’t even true. Gay people are-- well, they’re fine. No worse than the rest of society. But then the moment somebody thinks that _I’m_ gay, I make like an olympic runner. And so she probably _hates_ me.” 

“That’s not what she told me,” Lorelai consoles Rory. “In fact, she told me just about the opposite. Honestly, Rory, if you want my opinion, I think she _adores_ you. She’s just embarrassed. And maybe a little scared.” 

This is something to which Rory can relate a little more heavily than is ideal. The two Gilmores sit in a heavy silence. The air seems thicker than usual, certainly harder for Rory to suck through her lungs. The black, velvety darkness beyond the glass windows seems to suffocate them, the eggshell white walls seeming to close around them.

When you’re a teenager, you’re in a perpetual state of feeling like the world is on the verge of ending. It’s even worse now. Rory feels like she’s teetering on the edge of some steep cliff of high school angst, gay feelings, and mortification with the vortex of homosexuality swirling treacherously beneath her.

(Okay, so that may be a bit of a melodramatic way of putting it. Still.)

“So, are you?” asks Lorelai rather tentatively. Rory looks up with a dejected sniff. 

“Am I what?” 

“Going to friend-zone her,” Lorelai clarifies. “Is that how you see her? Just a friend?”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what _I_ want to do. She already considers herself friend-zoned. So I don’t actually have that much of a choice in the matter.”

“Okay, but let’s say you did. Have a choice in the matter.” Rory realizes that she’s got a throw pillow clutched over her chest and is digging her chin into it, so that she has to look up slightly to meet her mother’s gaze. She dislodges her chin slightly. “What would you tell her?”

Rory takes a moment attempting to determine what answer Lorelai expects to hear. What she _wants_ to hear, even. She’ll support whatever she chooses to do; Rory is sure of that. That being said, she might still be a bit relieved if Rory tells her that Paris really _is_ just a friend. That way, they could just move on with their lives and act like this was just some crazy anomaly that won’t repeat itself, because now Paris has been appropriately friend-zoned and is nothing more than just that: a friend. _But is she?_

“I don’t _know,_ okay?” Rory bursts out, throwing her hands in the air and sending the throw pillow flying. It hits some nearby wall with and slides to the floor with a soft _thud._ “What I _want_ is to go on a marathon of trying to rank all the live-action adaptations of _Pride And Prejudice_ and end with a ramble about how none of them are really accurate because they lack the authenticity of--” She stops, realizing the example is bizarrely specific. “-- not the point. The point is that I wish I could just forget any of this ever happened because now everybody is going to look at me and wonder if I’m, like, a secret lesbian or something! I’m not! I like boys, damn it! I just…might like Paris, too.” 

The lack of a pillow has left Rory folded over on herself, arms wrapped around her knees. She’s looking at the nearest couch cushion instead of her mother. She wonders what she’d find in Lorelai’s gaze. Sympathy? Amusement? Shock? Best not to find out. Whatever it is, it’s definitely mixed with that motherly fondness Lorelai seems to exude at all times. 

“Well, you don’t have to decide right now,” Lorelai tells her. “I didn’t mean to push you or anything. I just thought that I might as well ask you now, while everything’s still out in the open, y’know?”

“I know,” Rory mutters. 

“Plus,” Lorelai continues, “I let you spend hours with the world’s most emotionally constipated small-town diner grump. I figured I owed you a feelings talk.” 

“You _did_ do that,” Rory allows. “He gave me animal crackers. Gotta love that guy.” 

“You do,” Lorelai agrees. For just a second, there’s that faraway look in her eyes. Later, Rory will wonder if this means she has feelings for Luke. For now, she’s a bit preoccupied for such musings. Rory feels a hand on her shoulder, and she looks up to find Lorelai reaching out for her. “Over here,” she commands. Smiling slightly, Rory inches closer to Lorelai until they’re close enough that Lorelai can wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I know it’s been a long day. So if you want to go to bed, that’s fine, but I thought we might want to catch a movie or something.” 

Rory makes her best effort to imagine herself enjoying a movie. She can’t really see it in her mind’s eye, so she shakes her head. “Yeah, I think I’ll just go to bed,” she decides, planting her feet on the ground and rising from the couch. It’s early, but like Lorelai had said, it’s been a long day and Rory can’t imagine being able to salvage the rest of the evening into anything enjoyable. Cutting it short and getting an extra couple hours of sleep is probably the best she can do. 

Maybe Rory will wake up and realize that the events of the day have only been some strange dream, the culmination of all of her scrambled Paris feelings, and when she goes to school after the summer (having had time to process) she can go about acting on them in a completely rational, not-a-total-shitstorm manner. _God, wouldn’t that be something._

“First...should I call Paris or something? I feel like I should apologize for ditching her.”

Rory looks to Lorelai to read her facial expression, only to find it stubbornly neutral. “Whatever you want, kid.”

“Come on.” Rory throws her hands exasperatedly in the air. “Give me a hint here. Good idea? I would be better off heading on over to the zoo and throwing myself in the lion exhibit?” 

Lorelai shrugs indifferently. Really, the most frustrating part is that Rory knows she has _some_ opinion on the subject. “Whatever you think is best.” 

So Rory uses her remaining strength to drag heavy legs over to the phone and dials Paris’s phone number. The _beep_ of each number rings out like a warning. The machine answers. It’s just the default tone; it makes sense, given that the Gellers don’t really seem like the kind of people to record a custom tone for their answering machine. Rory is both disappointed and relieved. 

Once the beep has run its course, Rory finds herself unsure of what to say. “Uh-- call me,” she says in a rush before throwing down the phone like a ticking bomb and ducking into her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that they're not allowed to be happy yet 
> 
> I just feel like, realistically, if these two got together in high school it wouldn't be without a lot of drama. That's not to say I'm never going to give them a happy ending, just that it'll take another couple of chapters lmao 
> 
> Also, choosing to have one of the most emotionally charged moments of the entire story at a town meeting? That was one weird-ass tone switch. Oh, well. That's Gilmore Girls for you. 
> 
> I didn't take too much time to edit this, but oh well lol it's already been three weeks and if you were looking for really well thought out writing you would probably be looking farther than ao3, anyways. On that note, thanks for bearing with me on this whole wacky story. I appreciate it!
> 
> Side note: as is, this fic is a one woman operation, but if anybody who has made it this far and has the time would be interested in beta-ing future chapters for me, let me know :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i'm back :)  
> Big thanks to my beta (i've never gotten to say that before!) SaltyPistachio! it's thanks to them that you don't have to look at silly typos anymore. More notes at the end

Paris takes a discreet look down at her watch. _3:57._

“Okay,” she announces to the group of students, all looking at her expectantly. Chilton’s summer vacation is officially over, meaning all of those who attend it have once more been corralled into crowded halls. They fill the classrooms, some with bright futures and others who will, at some point in their lives, be tasked with asking questions such as _would you like fries with that?_ It’s where Paris is comfortable; at least, it used to be. Now, it’s where Rory is. Rory, who is going to arrive at the Franklin’s first official staff meeting in... Paris, once more, glances down at her watch. _3:58._ Two minutes. 

Paris hadn’t _wanted_ to let Rory onto the paper. She’d wanted to turn a blind eye to Rory’s existence as a whole. Unfortunately, Rory is one of the only kids who has signed up who actually knows how to write _._ Equally unfortunately, Paris had chickened out of the whole _actually letting her work on the paper_ part and had, in the shortest email of her career as a Chilton student, given Rory a false time for the meeting. 

The one email, the only contact she and Rory have had since that day at the festival. The one that Paris hasn’t been able to stop replaying in her mind over and over and _over_ again. Her leaning in to kiss Rory, then, later, Rory pushing her entire body weight against the door of Miss Patty’s dance studio in a desperate escape attempt, like a bird from inside a cage. It’s still all too fresh in Paris’s mind. She still has Rory’s sweater buried in the lowest drawer of her dresser. She plays the same game with herself every time she goes to pick out clothes where she just pretends that it doesn’t exist and ignores that particular drawer like the plague. 

Paris forces herself back to the present, where she’s sitting in a long room with fluorescent lighting that smells heavily of ink, disinfectant, and pencil shavings. 

The thing is that the meeting, having started at five-past three, was supposed to have ended a little under ten minutes ago. And yet this damn supervisor woman keeps pushing the thing over. All Paris wants is out of there before Rory comes waltzing obliviously in.

Sometimes Paris wonders why she even bothers with extracurriculars like this. Then she remembers two equally accurate facts: one, that she’s going to go to Harvard, and, two, that she has nothing better to do and would probably die of boredom and pent up nervous energy if she ever were to stop. 

“Okay what?” One of the girls on the paper looks at Paris questioningly. 

“Okay as in we’re _done_ here, Lola. Show’s over. It’s been nice, everybody.” Paris, beginning to panic, makes a shooing motion. 

A couple of students begin to stand, but then that supervisor-- what’s her name? Paris neither knows nor cares-- sharply says, “hey. You can’t dismiss the meetings. We haven’t handed out the schedules yet.”

“But I’m the editor.”

“I’m rather surprised, Paris. You don’t seem like the kind of student to try and get out early.” And there’s that disapproving, stern glare Paris hates so much.

“I’m not. I’m trying to get us out eight minutes _late_.” 

“Ten,” interjects a voice from across the table. Paris looks to the source. Some nerdy looking guy. Thick glasses. 

“What?”

“It’s four,” the kid clarifies. “So, we’re ten minutes late. Not eight.” Having said his piece, he nods politely and folds his hands over the table.

And then, right on cue, the door swings open to reveal Rory, looking perfectly perky and not yet aware that anything is wrong. Paris wishes that the ground could just open up and swallow her whole.

It’s been a little while since she’s seen Rory. Not much about her has changed. She seems slightly taller, and her hair looks like it’s had a light trim. It’s only the too-straight ends that give it away, as not much of the length has been sacrificed. Still, the sight of her after so long winds Paris for a moment, like somebody has elbowed her gut.

Nobody has, of course. Not unless you count Paris’s inner lesbian. 

“Boy,” chirps Rory, “you’re all here early. I’m excited to be able to work with such dedicated--” Then, presumably upon seeing the expression on Paris’s face, her own goes blank, and Paris is certain that the jig is up. 

“Ms. Gilmore. How nice of you to show up,” says the supervisor tartly, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

Rory’s eyes widen with shame and disbelief; she’s probably never been properly lectured by a teacher in her life. Well, maybe _that’s_ not true, but it happens very seldomly. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Lee,” she says. 

“Not only are you late,” Ms. Lee continues, looking thoroughly unimpressed, “but you’ve arrived ten minutes past the scheduled termination of this meeting. I fail to understand why you showed up at all.”

At the look of sheer betrayal on Rory’s face, the wide eyes and the plain hurt, Paris is nearly ready to stand up and take responsibility for her actions. _This is all my fault, Ms. Lee. I gave her the wrong time...why would I do that? Oops, look at the clock! Gotta go!_

As Rory and Paris are, by all accounts-- at least, all accounts from the fine people of Chilton-- mortal enemies, such a claim would probably work. The best lies are always based on truths, after all. The thing is, Paris has never been very good about taking responsibility for her actions. That and she’s worried she’ll get booted off of the paper if she tells the truth. So she keeps her mouth shut. _Sorry, Rory,_ she thinks. It’s silly, but a part of her hopes that Rory can hear her through some telepathic powers neither have. 

“I-I thought,” Rory stammers, only to be cut off.

“It doesn’t matter what you thought,” reprimands Ms. Lee firmly. “What matters is that you weren’t here in time to get a story.”

Rory ducks her head down abashedly. “Understood,” she mumbles. “It won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not,” says Ms. Lee. 

“Uh,” Paris chimes in, causing all of the occupants of the room to look at her, Rory included. That hurt puppy expression takes a dagger to Paris’s soul. “They’re repaving the sidewalk.” 

Now Rory just looks confused. “What?”

“Tomorrow,” Paris clarifies. “They’re repaving the sidewalk. You could cover it.”

Ms. Lee nods, satisfied. “There you go, Ms. Gilmore. That’s your story this week.” She walks over to Rory, handing her a bundle of papers. “I’ll be willing to overlook your carelessness as long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“Thank you,” Rory tells her in a rush, nodding as she takes the papers. Then she turns back to Paris. “Can I _talk_ to you?” She says _talk_ in a very sharp tone which suggests that such a conversation will not be pleasant. Paris’s insides are burning with panic, but she keeps a straight face.

“About what is expected of you and the paving story? Sure, although I’m not so sure our classmates would appreciate us holding them up. The meeting was supposed to end thirteen minutes ago, you know.” 

“Right,” Rory agrees, forcing a smile so fake and with so much thinly-veiled fury that it’s almost scary. “Well, that’s fine. I was hoping I could talk to you _alone,_ anyways.” 

“Anything you have to say to me you can say to the group,” Paris insists, motioning towards the group of students sat around the table. “We’re a team, after all. Any functioning newspaper should have a staff of people who are all on the same page. Right?” She shoots a glare at Brad, who instantly sits up a little straighter in his chair.

“R-right!”

“Well, Brad,” Rory counters, “I’d say that, to produce a competent newspaper, all team members must be _truthful_ with one another regarding all paper-related matters regardless of their personal relationships. Right?” She says _truthful_ through tightly gritted teeth.

“Err...right?” This time it’s more of a question then a statement. 

“But of course, Brad,” says Paris, “you must always respect the editor. Especially when she’s only made an honest mistake.”

Poor Brad looks entirely lost, like he wants nothing more than to just prance on out of the room. Paris, who feels the exact same way, can hardly blame him.

“Alright,” Ms. Lee cuts in, “I’m not exactly sure what all this is about. I can’t read teenagers, nor do I want to. Whatever it is that’s going on, get it wrapped up quickly so that we can get home.” 

“Yeah, Paris,” Rory agrees with more passive-aggression than is strictly necessary. 

“Rory, why don’t you just let me know what it is you have to talk to me about right now? It’ll only take a couple of minutes, and then we can all head on off.” 

“Actually, I have to go,” cuts in Madeline, grimacing apologetically. 

“Right now?” Paris demands, feeling mildly enraged by the betrayal. Louise nods.

“I have an appointment to get a mani-pedi,” Madeline explains.

“Me too,” Louise adds. “We invited you, remember? I mean, you said no, but we asked.” 

Paris scowls; she’s been letting herself get herded around by Madeline and Louise in an attempt to avoid catching Rory alone, and has been listening to their conversations quite a bit so that she can’t do enough actual thinking to inevitably work herself into a panic. She knows from listening to these conversations that said mani-pedi appointment is _actually_ scheduled for Saturday. 

Still, she makes no argument as first Louise and then Madeline rise from their seats and saunter right on out of the room, except for mentally: _filthy traitors_. Neither does Ms. Lee. Paris just hopes that everybody else stays. 

Some students brave hesitant glances at the door. Paris has her hopes that they will remain seated, which are promptly crushed when one kid, the loadbearing one as far as she’s concerned, leaves. Then they run like water, student after student after student flowing out the door. Paris glares at their backs. 

“Alright, ladies,” concludes Ms. Lee, clapping her hands together, “I’ll give the two of you a couple of minutes to discuss the pavement story. Don’t stay too long, I’m not really supposed to leave you in the classrooms without supervision.” Then, rather ironically, she proceeds to do just that. 

Once Ms. Lee leaves, Rory’s expression warps into one of absolute fury. Her brow is furrowed, her nose scrunched up with disgust. Her eyes blaze with animosity and her fists are curled. This expression is one which Paris would typically find at least somewhat adorable. Today it is terrifying. 

“Paris, what the hell?” Rory squawks. 

“Look, Gilmore, I know you’re probably not too happy about getting stuck with the pavement piece, but you’ve just gotta take it and run with it, y’know? Turn nothing into something. Channel your inner literary genius. Be willing to forgive and forget those who have put you in such a compromising position and, instead of being eternally bitter towards them, turn over your cheek and thank them for giving you this opportunity.” 

Paris stands there, waiting in anticipation for Rory to say something. She doesn’t seem to appreciate the speech. 

“The _opportunity?_ Paris, the, what the hell-- _appreciate the opportunity_. God. Remind me why I expected you to act mature about this?” 

The way that Rory is looking at Paris, the pure, unadulterated pissed off-ness, has her slightly hesitant to make a response. She hates that Rory is upset with her. Then again, that had sort of been the point. Reject Rory before Rory could reject her. _Because we all know she’s gonna._ The idea is a swirly, dark pit in the depths of Paris’s stomach.

“Look. I’ll make it up to you by giving you a better story next time,” Paris offers. “The interview with last year’s favorite teacher.”

For a moment, Rory looks vaguely pleased. Then, her eyebrows narrow in suspicion as she asks, “who, exactly, was last year’s favorite teacher?” 

Because, despite the fact that Paris regrets being an asshole to Rory, she’s going to continue to do so until Rory is so traumatized that she transfers schools. In Paris’s defense, it’s not like she has any choice in the matter. Her mouth seems to have a mind of its own. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Paris assures Rory quickly. _Certainly not, you know, your mom’s ex-fiance._

“Ugh, you complete and utter asshat!” Rory declares. Her voice has gone lightly squeaky. Paris would find it amusing if it weren’t so devastating. 

“Should’ve stayed away from me, huh, Gilmore? Aren’t you sorry you had the audacity to go and be _nice_ to me? It was a bad idea. I told you at the time. On multiple occasions, if memory serves. You didn’t listen, because you were too busy off in your stupid wonderland with your cotton candy and your _boys_ who don’t make you wanna vomit and your--” 

_Your mother who actually gives a shit about you,_ Paris realizes she was about to say. She cuts herself off just in time. 

Rory doesn’t say anything, though, instead just studying Paris. Then, her eyebrows lose their arch and the features of her face go soft. Rory sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. For a stunned moment Paris thinks that her commentary has done the trick. Then Rory actually speaks. 

“Come on, Paris. You’re acting like we’re back last year, before we actually _liked_ each other. You’re back to calling me Gilmore. I thought we were over that. What’s that about?” 

Paris crosses her arms protectively over her chest. 

“You haven’t returned my calls, either,” Rory continues. “I called you so many times that first week after the festival. At first I thought that maybe the messages were being deleted by your dad or your maid or something. But I’m sure _one_ of them went through to you.”

Paris winces; it’s true. The messages had varied whatnot-- from simple ones such as _call me_ to desperate ones like _come on, Paris, we need to talk about this_ and angry messages like _oh my God, you’re being so immature, pick up the phone, damn it_ \-- but Paris had responded to none of them. 

“I sent you an email,” says Paris crisply in reply, as though this solves everything. 

“Yes. You did. Do you remember what you wrote?”

“Four o’clock. Be there or be square,” recalls Paris. “No subject line.” 

_“Yes,”_ seethes Rory. “That’s what you wrote. And I venture to say that I was square.”

“You were.”

“By no fault of my own.” 

“By no fault of your own.”

“I was there.” 

“You were.” 

“Stop just repeating everything that I’m saying!” snaps Rory. “I’m trying to have an adult conversation with you.” 

“I’m sorry my conversational skills fail to meet your expectations,” Paris deadpans. She feels like she’s being backed into a corner, both figuratively and literally. Rory is slowly advancing towards Paris, and as the latter backs away from her, she finds herself closer and closer to the wall. 

Paris feels like her brain has turned to a useless mush, having rendered her entirely unable to think. What she wouldn’t give to go back and _not_ kiss Rory on that bench. _Why did I do that?_

The plan had been to never speak to Rory again. Rory, evidently, will not be having this. 

“Ugh. This is exactly what I should have expected.” Rory gives up in her pursuit of Paris, instead backing away and leaning defeatedly against the table. “You’re like-- like one of those gas stoves that stops making gas when the power goes out, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Paris admits. “I’ve never been through a power outage before.” _Or used a stove._

“Of course you haven’t. That would be a Stars Hollow thing,” says Rory. “In the big city everybody just has power _all the time,_ even when there’s a snowstorm--” Rory, apparently not quite enamored enough with the luxury of the big city to forget her anger with Paris, stops. “-- not my point. My _point_ is that you just shut down at the slightest hint of danger. And it’s frustrating because now I have to make my breakfast over the fire like a pioneer.” 

“Your metaphor is getting really convoluted here,” Paris criticizes. “What exactly is the breakfast supposed to represent?” 

At this, Rory’s entire face goes a blotchy shade of red. She looks upset again, knuckles white from how firmly she’s gripping the table as she cries, “For God’s sake, Paris. _You_ were the one who kissed _me!_ It wasn’t even my stupid fault, so I don’t get why you’re trying to punish me!” 

At this, Paris lunges forward and clamps a hand firmly over Rory’s mouth, making a point of looking in the opposite direction. Her palms are beginning to feel damp with sweat, her heart slamming in her chest. “Say that a little louder,” she hisses, “will you? I was sort of hoping the whole _school_ could hear. Because, you know, that seedy little town of yours wasn’t enough.”

Then Paris feels Rory’s fingers drawing near her wrist, and she hastily pulls her hand away from Rory’s mouth like it’s on fire. Rory gives a hollow chuckle. “You won’t even _look_ at me,” she mutters. “Hey.” Rory relocates her fingers to underneath Paris’s chin and gently turns her head, demanding Paris’s attention. “I’m sorry about everything that happened. Running off and all that. But we can’t just not _talk_ about it.”

“Watch me,” says Paris coldly, and she stalks off. Every fiber of her being is screaming at her to turn back, let Rory console her and transform her panic into mild discomfort. Something manageable. Paris vaguely remembers a time when she had considered herself to be capable of controlling her own actions. Now she knows from experience that another two minutes of letting Rory reason with her will have the two apologizing and laughing like they’re characters on some badly written sitcom. 

Maybe that would make Paris happy. 

Maybe, for the moment, Paris cares more about protecting herself and staying that perfect girl she’s always imagined-- straight A’s, straight path to Harvard, just generally more straightness than Paris can realistically pride herself on at this particular moment-- than she does happiness. 

***

“So, how was your summer?” 

Paris sits, once more, across from the world’s most persistent school counselor. Same desk, same college flags up on slightly different walls (they’ve been repainted), same desk, and the same rickety chairs. She runs a finger over the grain of the wood that makes up Mrs. Burdiness’s desk, failing to answer to her inquiry, save for with an indifferent grunt and shrug. 

“What? No snappy comeback?” Paris looks up, having been more or less lost in thought, to see Mrs. Burdienss, eyebrows raised, looking at her expectantly. 

“Hey, do you want me to be rude to you or not?” Paris asks. “Because I seem to remember you having this whole thing about my _attitude_ or whatever. Then again, it’s been a while.”

“It has,” Mrs. Burdiness agrees. 

Paris turns back to the wood. It’s a strangely pleasant shade of golden brown, finished with some sort of shiny polish. It has to have been very expensive. _This is where my tuition money goes?_ Then she remembers that she’s expected to be holding a conversation with this woman.

“Did you bring cupcakes to celebrate our reunion?” Paris snarks. 

“I would’ve, but I believe you mentioned a gluten allergy some time ago.”

“Dairy,” corrects Paris, “and I’m over that. What do we get instead, rice cakes? Granola bars?” 

“Nothing,” Mrs. Burdiness announces, spreading her hands over her desk as if to allude to the lack of delicious snacks on which they can gorge themselves. 

“Of course, of course.” Paris nods amicably. “You probably live off of some weird, culty private school philosophy. ‘Oh, madam, when you put bread and cheese into these children’s mouths, you little think how you starve their immortal souls!’ That kind of shit.” 

Mrs. Burdiness takes a moment to study Paris, seeming vaguely stumped. “I don’t follow,” she says eventually. 

_Of course you don't._ Paris can’t help but think that Rory would have recognized the reference in a second. Jane Eyre. She doesn’t comment on it, instead just glaring half-heartedly at Mrs. Burdiness. She fidgets subconsciously with a pen, clicking the tip in and out and in and out and--

“You never answered me. How was your summer?” 

Paris finally looks down at her hand and realizes how viciously she’s been clicking the pen. She sets it back in the cup on the desk, not without taking a glance at the barrel. Apparently the pen is from the University Of Iowa. 

“Oh, my summer. Huh,” Paris mocks thinking, squinting concentratedly. Her gaze lands through the blinds of the window. She thinks of all the different ways that she could answer. 

_It was going okay. Then I built a wall, and, oh boy did things go downhill from there._ Or, _would you believe me if I told you that one of the best days of my life and one of the worst days of my life were the same day?_ Possibly _I went gay for my best friend for a second but that’s okay because now I’m back to being totally bitchy._

_Coming out of your shell is really overrated. I want back in._

_I kissed a girl and then spent half an hour crying to her mom about it._

_Pretty girls are the root of all evil._

_Have I mentioned that I’m secretly a raging lesbian?_

Paris says none of these things. “Interesting. It was interesting,” she eventually decides. She leans back in the chair, crossing her legs underneath the edge of the table and putting the tip of the pen she’d been clicking to the corner of her mouth, examining the walls of the office. 

“Say, did you repaint the walls?” 

Unfortunately, Mrs. Burdiness seems to sense that she’s hit on something. It’s probably some sixth sense that all school counselors have. The good ones, anyway. So she digs in. “Would you like to tell me about it?” 

Paris ignores her. “I’m glad,” she continues. “That wallpaper was _so_ seventies. And, coming from me, that’s saying something, because I have zero eye for design. Zilch.” 

“Would you like to tell me about it?” Mrs. Burdiness repeats it patiently like one of those annoying parrots.

“No,” announces Paris, punctuating this by flicking the pen so that it’s pointing a little higher into the air. 

“I get that a lot,” Mrs. Burdiness admits.

“You must be very lonely.” 

Mrs. Burdiness must also get _that_ a lot, as she doesn’t even look up, instead choosing to ignore the statement. 

“Do you have a cat yet? Or would that be a last resort?” Paris presses. 

“Some people just have cats, Paris,” Mrs. Burdiness informs her. “Does that mean that their goals in life have gone unfulfilled? No.”

“So that would be a yes,” concludes Paris. It makes sense. Mrs. Burdiness totally seems like the kind of person who would have a cat. The woman just sighs. She’s probably thinking woeful thoughts about how she doesn’t get paid enough. Paris knows that she certainly would if she were Chilton’s school counselor.

Paris can’t really think of a worse job. The main purpose of the school counselor is to get kids into college, and Paris can hardly imagine not only watching, but _helping_ so many kids throw their lives away at community colleges because they couldn’t be bothered to get their GPA over a two-point-nine. And then this, the feelings-y part, would be even worse. 

Plus, there are the kids like Paris who go out of their way to make the job a living hell. She feels slightly guilty for maybe half a second. 

Paris is opening her mouth to come up with something else when she catches sight of that bright yellow legal pad. Mrs. Burdiness seems focused enough on the paper that she’s not looking at Paris, so the latter uses the opportunity to reach out and grab it. She doesn’t get the whole pad, but the first page rips away, lightly crumpled. Mrs. Burdiness seems genuinely startled.

Triumphantly, Paris reads the notes out loud. “Still lashes out to avoid confronting her own emotions?” Her voice falters at the last part as she looks at Mrs. Burdiness, affronted. “Hey. I’ll have you know that I actually _did_ talk about my feelings this summer. I’ve just decided that it’s too much of a headache to _keep_ doing it, you know? I really don’t know what the racket’s about. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, I promise.” 

“Very good.” Mrs. Burdiness, having regained her composure, reaches out a hand for the paper. “I’ll have that back now.” Paris grudgingly hands the crumpled sheet back.

“I’ve been trying to steal your notes for as long as I’ve been in high school,” remarks Paris, feeling a silly amount of pride at having finally accomplished as much. 

She vaguely remembers the first time that she had been called in. Some nasty demon of a child had been cheating off of her paper, but the teacher hadn’t believed Paris when she’d called them out. So she’d taken matters into her own hands. Paris is still furious over that incident. 

“Would you like a certificate?” Mrs. Burdiness deadpans.

“Yes, please.” 

“So, what exactly happened when you tried to open up that has turned you away from doing so again in the future?”

_I was outed as a lesbian to an entire small town. Not even hyperbolically._

“If I felt like sharing, that question wouldn’t even be worth asking,” Paris points out. "Some pretty circular logic, if you ask me. Not that you did." 

“Fair enough.” 

Really, though, Paris thinks about it. Takes a second to really think about it. Talking to Rory and admitting how much she meant to her, and then later, when she’d had a discussion with Lorelai about the same thing. She remembers it all very clearly. Well, she remembers the part with Lorelai; everything before that had happened just a little bit too quickly. 

Sitting on the bench in front of Luke’s, kissing Rory, and then staring into her glass of ice water as she freaked out afterwards. Then, later, the town meeting. The way her heart had stopped-- not skipped a beat or two, not sped up for a minute or two, straight up _stopped_ \-- when that nosy woman had run her mouth. A skip in time, then Rory frantically pushing the heavy, wooden door aside. All _that_ is a panicked blur. Not because it wasn’t important, really more because Paris had spent all of that time in her head screaming at herself that her life was basically ruined instead of processing the events like an actual, functioning human being. 

But Paris remembers the conversation in the car, remembers it well. It feels like yesterday, even though it had actually been two-ish weeks ago. 

***

_Two-ish Weeks Ago:_

The first part of the drive back to Hartford is fairly different from the initial drive to Stars Hollow.

For one, Paris has taken the place of that atrocious gargoyle, and Lorelai has long since shed her neon pink feather boa. It’s dark outside. Monty The Rooster is obscured from view when they drive past him, as is everything else Paris remembers seeing. There are a couple of silhouettes, but mostly it’s just stars. Paris wonders when she’ll next be able to look at stars and _not_ think about that stupid night at the observatory. Not tonight, that’s for sure. 

There are two-- three, if you count the deafening silence and the way it crushes the atmosphere in the car like a sphygmomanometer (you know, those horrifying things they have at the doctor’s that are pumped with air and squeeze your arm until you think you’re gonna just drop dead)-- differences left between tonight’s drive and the one which had occurred earlier: the fact that Paris has recently been crying very, very hard and has spent the last ten minutes in an attempt not to start again, and the fact that Rory is missing from the car. 

In fact, only one factor is the same, this being that Paris spends nearly the whole drive staring out the window instead of trying to make conversation.

For once, Lorelai doesn’t try to force her, either. She just drives. Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. Every once in a while, presumably when she thinks that Paris isn’t looking, she sneaks a worried glance at her, but that’s about it. 

The window is cold. It’s cold enough that, when Paris breathes on it, she can see the way her breath has condensed over the glass. Experimentally, she runs a finger over it. It leaves a mark, only to fade away with the rest of the little cloud.

Paris tries again, scratching the image of a little log cabin into the space as quickly as she can until it’s no longer visible. But the lines aren’t straight enough, and Paris eventually gives up, instead just staring mindlessly at the windshield and the headlights of the traffic as they zoom past. 

The silence stretches out like rubber balloon, growing thinner and thinner until Paris just can’t handle herself and her thoughts anymore and it just--

“Fuck it. Yes, I totally kissed your daughter. Sorry if you still wanted her back with the floppy hair barbarian. What else do you want to know?” 

\-- pops. 

Funnily enough, Lorelai doesn’t even seem all that surprised. One would typically be taken aback if, after a half-hour of total silence, the individual they were in the car with just yelled something out like that. They might even be at risk of crashing. Not Lorelai, who, upon further inspection, seems to have been expecting the outburst.

Paris hates being predictable. She crosses her arms defiantly over her chest and turns back to the window, humbled. “She’s too good for him anyways,” she mutters, unwilling to marinate in the impossible silence any longer. And then, since Lorelai is too focused on merging onto the highway to respond, she just keeps going. “I mean, it’s not like my dashingly charming flirtation is going to be what saves her from her _atrocious_ taste in men, but I would be a monster if I didn’t try.”

Lorelai opens her mouth to say something, but since she’s taking _way_ too long to actually start speaking, Pairs continues the tirade, even in full awareness that she’s only digging herself deeper into the hole of _feelings_. 

“Okay, fine. That’s not why I kissed her. I just really wanted to kiss her, because I’m a lesbian now, apparently-- _who knew?_ I didn’t. Is _that_ what you wanted to hear?” 

Lorelai sighs. At first Paris thinks that she’s going to tell her to _shut up_ or to _get the hell away from my daughter!_ or something like that, until she remembers: it’s not a Geller sigh, it’s a Gilmore sigh. The two are wildly different. The revelation takes long enough that it actually gives Lorelai an opening to say something. 

“Kid, I never asked. I mean, you can talk about it, if that’s really what floats your boat, but you’re hardly obligated to, because I literally never _asked_.” 

“You were asking,” Paris insists. “You were just thinking it instead of actually talking. Which, by the way, is actually even _more_ annoying.” 

“Sorry, I’ll try to keep my brain quieter,” Lorelai deadpans, to which Paris gives a short, humorless bark of laughter. 

“You can try that. It doesn’t work. Trust me.” 

Then, Lorelai has her lips pressed together in determination. She jerks the steering wheel around, maneuvers the car into some sort of dirt patch on the side of the road, and stops. Paris frowns.

“Why’d you pull over? Is this thing finally on its last legs?”

“Oh, no.” Lorelai pats the car’s glove compartment contentedly. “This baby’s gonna last a _long_ time if I have anything to do with it.” 

“So then why did you pull over?” Paris demands, still unsatisfied. “Are you going to make me hitchhike the rest of the way home? I’m okay with that if the alternative is a _what are your intentions_ talk.” 

“Well, if you’re going to keep shouting at me about your teenager problems-- which, just so we’re clear, I’m fine with-- I don’t want to end up driving off of a cliff and killing us both. That would be irresponsible adulting.”

“You know what else would be irresponsible adulting?”

“What?” 

“Leaving your only child with some random-ass diner guy in his random-ass diner for hours and hours while you listen to me ramble about my-- as you so eloquently put it-- _teenager problems_. Because, let’s be honest here, this whole thing probably seems pretty damn inconsequential to the woman who spent her junior year of highschool picking out breast pumps.” 

The goal with this particular comment had been to either offend Lorelai right out of this conversation or shock her into silence. Of course, Lorelai is Lorelai and Paris really should have known better than to think either possibility at all probable. In fact, Lorelai really seems more taken aback by the first half of the statement. 

“Okay. First of all, Luke is _not_ some _random-ass diner guy_. He’s...he’s…” She falters, but it doesn’t take a genius to fathom what had been about to come next.

“Like a father to Rory?” Paris guesses. Lorelai blushes. 

“Well, yeah. He’s always been around. He still treats her like a kid from time to time, but Chris isn’t really around and sometimes she needs that, you know?” Then she shakes her head decisively. “You’re getting me off-topic. What I was _going_ to say is that maybe getting knocked up at sixteen takes the cake, but that doesn’t mean that what happened tonight isn’t worth getting upset over. Because it was really bizarre and, frankly, sort of awful. So ramble away.” 

Paris ducks her head down so that she’s looking at the floor of the car instead of at Lorelai, because she can feel her eyes begin to sting again. There’s a Twinkie wrapper, a ballpoint pen, and a stray Cheez-it. The pen is printed with the logo of some company that had come to Chilton do an inspirational assembly a little ways back, but that says very little about who had last been using it; Lorelai and Rory are definitely the type of people close enough that their spare pens are interchangeable. 

Somehow it’s this last detail that really messes with Paris’s head as she mumbles, “You seem like a really good mom.” 

She braves a glance up at Lorelai, promptly wishing that she hadn’t upon seeing that she looks positively flattered by the statement, which would have never happened if Paris had just continued to be an asshole as is typical for her. In fact, she’s just opening her mouth to say _nevermind!_ when Lorelai responds. 

“Aw. Thank you. That’s really sweet of you to say, Paris.” 

“Jeez. No, it’s not,” Paris argues, pressing herself against the door of the car as if cowering away from the _affection_ , holding her hands out like a shield. “All I’m saying is that you possess the basic competency required to raise a human child.”

“Oh, okay.” Lorelai says this as though it changes everything, slouching over casually in her seat. “When you put it like _that_.” 

“Yeah,” Paris concludes, glad that she understands. “And, you know, I really like Stars Hollow. It’s just too bad that, if I ever come back, I’ll have to wear a paper bag over my head. Not that I ever _am_ going to come back, because I’m not. But, you know, it’s not a bad place. I can sort of see why you and Rory like it so much.” 

“About that.” Lorelai cringes. “I’m really sorry about my...friends. They have absolutely zero sense of personal space, and since everybody in Stars Hollow is, like, a single unit sometimes, it’s really easy to forget that, you know, not everybody who steps foot in town wants their entire personal life broadcasted to the moon.” She hesitates for a second before adding, “They were like that when I broke off my engagement with Max. I don’t know if you know about that-- I mean, obviously you know we were together--”

If Paris had regretted telling the entire school about Lorelai and Max making out in that empty classroom _before_ , now the very mention of it makes her want to throw herself out the car window. She buries her face in her hands with a muffled groan. “Ugh. Don’t _remind_ me.” 

“I’m over it,” Lorelai assures Paris quickly. “That was a long time ago now, right?”

“I guess.” Paris pries herself from her hands, which are sort of sweaty and uncomfortable to hold one’s face in. 

“So, anyways, my point with all that was just to say that they’re always like that. It’ll be something else soon. Somebody will get a bad facelift, or Kirk will buy a really fat cat, or some crazy combination of the two that absolutely nobody could have predicted.”

“Kirk’s new, fat cat and him get matching facelifts?”

Lorelai tilts her head back slightly in soft laughter. “Something like that.” 

Paris looks outside. Now it’s completely dark, no hint of anything peeking through the shadows. It’s like the car is some tiny patch of universe in a void of nothingness. It makes Paris feel very small and, somehow, colder. She looks down at her sleeve. Even in the darkness, it feels so glaringly obvious that this sweater does not belong to her. It clings to her like none of Paris’s own, boxier sweaters do, in a staticky, somewhat annoying way. But it’s also softer. 

And it’s there, in the darkness, that Paris opens her mouth and prepares to spill her guts.

***

“What are you thinking about?” Mrs. Burdiness studies Paris, amused.

It’s been about half an hour since Paris had given up any conversation with Mrs. Burdiness, began to respond with _yes_ or _no_ to all the conversational questions she’s been asked, and been thrown back into thinking about that night. The question takes Paris by surprise; sometimes it feels like her and her thoughts exist in an entirely separate plane of existence than anybody else, so it’s always strange when somebody else acknowledges them.

“Nothing,” Paris lies. It’s not the type of lie where you’re trying to convince the other person that you’re telling them the truth, rather the type of lie designed to emphasize how much you don’t want to answer the question truthfully. 

“Okay. I’m gonna let you go now. Have a nice day, okay?” 

“Okay,” Paris agrees. Later, it will occur to her that the correct response would have been _you too_. Paris doesn’t get told to have a nice day often enough that this response is one which she practices on a regular basis. Then, when she walks out of the office, Paris realizes that she genuinely doesn’t remember what Mrs. Burdiness had spent all that time trying to talk to her about. 

***

Rory looks quite proud of herself when, a couple of days later, she struts into the empty newsroom with a smirk on her face and produces a small stack of maybe two or three pieces of paper, thrusting it out at Paris. “Here.”

Paris looks at Rory. Then she looks down at the paper. It has some sort of printing on it. Then she looks up at Rory again, not entirely sure what to say. The staff of _The Franklin_ isn’t officially meeting for another hour (she’s only here because Ms. Lee seems to be incredibly lax on the whole _no leaving the kids alone in the classroom_ rule). Rory jerks the papers as if to remind Paris that they exist.

“What are you doing here?” Paris asks. 

“I’ve learned a very valuable lesson in the past week, Paris, and that’s that if you say to come at four, I come at three.”

“Yeah, well, this time the meeting actually _is_ at four. I had to get the times changed because some kids have a screenwriting club about now. I didn’t want to cave-- if anybody’s going to have to change their schedules, why not make it the screenwriting people? Punish them for the travesty that is modern television-- but eventually I decided to take the high road because I really have better things to think about.”

“That’s a lot of writing in one day,” Rory observes. “So, what are you doing here?”

“I basically live here. Did you seriously think that I have a life? Because I really don’t, no matter how many times I’ve told you otherwise.” 

Then the awkwardness of the situation hits Paris: the way they’re standing at least four feet away from each other, and how Rory is _still_ holding out the papers. 

“My arm hurts,” Rory whines, so Paris snatches the packet of papers from her hand. She’s not sure what it’s supposed to be, so she feels a little bit silly for her apprehension when she looks at the heading. 

_Repaved: How Sidewalks Reflect Our Society_

_By Rory Gilmore_

“It’s, uh, the pavement story,” Rory explains. Now that she doesn’t have the papers to hold, she’s resorted to twiddling her thumbs. Paris has never seen anybody actually do this; she’d assumed it to be a figure of speech.

“I have eyes.” 

“I’m really proud of it,” Rory tries again. 

Flipping through the paper, Paris finds that there is a whole two pages of it. “It had better be if you really took _this long_ on the repaving of the sidewalks. I mean, it’s not actually that long, but it’s a bit much for a story that’s never going to make the headline.” 

“Oh, believe me, it might.” 

Paris raises her eyebrows skeptically at Rory. “You think?” 

“This story is about so much more than paving,” Rory assures Paris. 

“We’ll see about that.”

Paris sits down to read the paper in one of those dinky plastic chairs they always seem to have from kindergarten all the way up through high school. She reads the article. Somehow, Rory has managed to detail the repaving of the sidewalks while spinning a dramatic metaphor of life and society. It has no right to be as competent a paper as it is, nor as tear-jerking. It almost reads like a George Orwell novel. 

_It’s really good. Damn it._

“With some time spent editing, this will make a decent enough piece.” Paris looks at Rory, making sure to stare right into her eyes in display of a complete lack of intimidation, and nods sharply. Then, when Rory makes no move to leave, “You can go now. Like I said, the meeting actually _is_ at four this time, so you can just do some reading or whatever it is you were going to do.”

Paris isn’t sure why she actually expected this to work. It emphatically does not. If anything, Rory seems even more encouraged to keep her feet planted into the ground. “Seriously?” she demands. “That’s it?”

“Yes. For now, that will be all.” Paris pulls her pencil case from her backpack, unzips it, and extracts a highlighter and a red ballpoint pen. These instruments will be those which she uses to tear Rory’s paper into metaphorical shreds. She looks up when she doesn’t hear any sort of footsteps in the opposite direction. “You can leave now.” 

Rory stares incredulously at Paris, her mouth wide open in disbelief. “Unbelievable,” she scoffs. “You can’t-- you can’t just _dismiss_ me like that.”

“Well, I _am_ your editor.” 

“Paris!” snaps Rory. “Do you seriously just _not_ want to talk about this? Because I know we’ll both feel much, much better once we just...rip off the band-aid. No anesthesia. It might not feel that way now, but it will later, okay?” 

Rory is near the doorway, but she walks towards the table, throws one of those plastic chairs to the side, and props her hands firmly on the table. Then, she leans down and stares at Paris from across the table, and there’s that familiar gleam of determination in her eyes from when she needs to write a pop-essay or recite a Shakespearean soliloquy in class with that same confidence that always has Paris’s eyes glued to her. They are now, too, even though Paris wants to look away. 

“I just don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” Paris’s lips are now pressed into a firm glare as she meets Rory’s gaze from across the table. 

“Oh, really? If you _actually_ thought that then you would be talking to me!” 

“That’s some really backwards logic, Gilmore. Do we need to get you back in preschool?” 

“It’s not backwards logic, okay? It’s very forwards logic because, if you didn’t think that there was something that I wanted to talk about, there wouldn’t be anything for you to avoid, and you wouldn’t be avoiding me! And don’t even try to tell me that you’re not avoiding me!” Paris scowls, having been about to do just that. 

“I just…” Paris trails off, the way her throat has suddenly seemed to dry up, making speaking harder than it reasonably should be. “We should never have happened!” she bursts out, kicking the chair out from underneath her and slamming her hands onto the table. “I _told_ you that I hated you from the moment I set eyes on you! You insisted that we needed to be _friends_ anyways, because you live in some fairytale where roosters crow in the mornings and everything is always sunny and, in that world, _friendship_ is always the answer. Did you not think, not even for a single second, that I had the right idea in avoiding you? I _always_ have the right idea! You know that!” 

It’s vaguely repetitive of what she’d told Rory just a few days ago, but Paris says it with more conviction and, somehow, Rory actually seems to believe it this time. Paris knows because she sees a flash of hurt in her eyes. 

“Right.” Rory lifts herself from the table, slowly beginning to walk towards the other end of the room. She’s got her head turned so that she’s still looking at Paris, and her hand is trailing across the table. “Because you _hate_ me, and we’ve had exactly zero fun together. That concert? That probably meant nothing to you. When you came to my house so I could help you pick out an outfit for your date with Tristan, I guess it really _was_ because you just like my fashion sense. A-and the Oreos, and getting chased out of an observatory together. We even built a _wall,_ Paris. A wall. And I was thinking that we had fun at the festival, too, before all hell broke loose. But I’m really sorry about all that, all that time I spent being _nice_ to you, because apparently you regret it.” 

Paris’s breath catches in her throat as Rory slowly circles the table, still glaring at Paris. And now Paris is having doubts. “I don’t--” she protests, only to be cut off. Rory smirks. 

“See? You _don’t_ regret it. You just say that you do because you think that the human ability to have fun must make you weak.” 

“Fun never gets anybody anywhere.” Paris shakes her head as if to rid herself of any second thoughts as her gaze hardens and her hands harden into fists. 

“It doesn’t have to get anybody anywhere, Paris! It’s _fun,_ that’s the entire damn point!” 

“It’s not going to get me into Harvard,” Paris argues. She’s acutely aware that her voice has risen. It’s gone too loud, and vaguely shrill. It’s going to embarrass her later, but for now, she doesn’t make any move to stop herself. “And you know where it _did_ get me? In that hellish dance studio, with everybody _staring_ at me, and you--” Paris waves her hand as if in dismissal. “-- you were off like a herd of antelope. How do you think _that_ made me feel?”

“I hardly have to imagine,” retorts Rory. “I was there.” 

“Y-yeah, well you aren’t gay,” says Paris, because she’s basically the monarch of killer comebacks. 

“And you know that how, exactly?” 

Rory stops in her journey around the table. Paris freezes in place for a second as she thinks about what Rory has just said, her brain running at full speed. If Paris’s mind was powered by a little hamster on a wheel, the poor thing would be long dead from the exertion. It would just lie pathetically on the unmoving wheel with eyes wide open and its tongue sticking out of its mouth. _Could_ that be true? Technically, it’s not actually _impossible_ that Rory has feelings for Paris. Just incredibly unlikely-- unless it’s not. 

She dispels the thought violently and immediately. Rory isn’t gay. This is just her messing with Paris because she’s a cruel monster whose sole mission in life is to bring Paris all the way up to cloud nine and then drop her all the way down to China. Not that China’s an awful place to be, it’s just _really_ far down there. Either that or this is Rory’s twisted way of trying to be nice and let Paris down slowly. 

“Stop fucking with me,” orders Paris in her deepest, most threatening voice with her most accusatory glower. “Believe it or not, I’m not actually your personal pincushion.” 

“I’m not!” Rory sounds quite frustrated, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. “Look, Paris, I don’t know _what_ I am, exactly, but I’ve spent _months_ subconsciously flirting with you and that hardly makes me straight.” 

When Rory finishes talking, she takes a deep breath, then her eyes widen as she looks at Paris with an expression she recognizes quite well: it’s that same vulnerability that she’s looked at Rory with for...how long, exactly? Too long. 

“Really.” Paris says it quietly. Rory has reached the edge of the table. Now, the two of them are only a quarter of a table away from one another; granted, it’s a pretty long table, but Paris can still feel her heart rate pick up. She’s never ridden a roller coaster before, but she can imagine that it feels something like this. _I’ll take the roller coaster next time,_ she decides. 

“I mean, yeah.” Rory shrugs, and she covers the width of the table in one stride, leaving her not that far from Paris. Maybe a couple of feet. Paris wants to close the distance. Instead, she takes a small step back. Rory makes no move to reclaim those couple of inches. “The thing at the party. I literally sat on your lap.”

“That was _pretty_ gay,” Paris admits, her mouth widening into an involuntary smile. Rory is close enough now that Paris can watch her breath, take note of the way she fidgets with the buttons of her blazer. It seems to be some sort of nervous habit. And her stance is hesitant. The things that you can notice about somebody when you stand close enough to them and just take a moment to pay attention can be incredible. “I just thought it was you being obnoxiously straight. Like how Madeline and Louise act.”

“Do they sit on each other’s laps?”

Paris shrugs. If they have, she’s never actually noticed. It seems like the type of thing they might do. “Beats me.” 

Rory stops walking, now that she and Paris are only around two feet away from one another. Close enough that Rory could reach out and grab Paris by the wrist which, judging by the way her hand is held up indecisively, she seems to be considering doing. Then, at last, she speaks. 

“Paris, if I promise not to run away this time, could I kiss you?” 

For a couple of seconds, Paris just stands there, frozen. She’s still looking at Rory, whose eyes are wide with what looks to be anxiety as she leans against the table. Paris realizes that her hands are shaking at her sides. 

It occurs to Paris that she doesn’t actually know what had possessed Rory to run off like that. At the time, Paris had assumed that it had been humiliation. After all, who wouldn’t be horrified at the suggestion that they were dating Paris Geller? Now that Rory has admitted that she is not, in fact, all that straight, Paris is beginning to feel the slightest hint of guilt for having assumed as much. Maybe, just _maybe,_ Rory had only been horrified for the same reasons as Paris.

_You know what they say about assumptions_ , Paris reminds herself. It is beyond fair to say that, in this instance, she has made an ass out of both herself and Rory. 

“I mean, you’re totally allowed to say no,” Rory adds in a rush, taking a step backward. 

“I know,” Paris says flatly.

“Oh, of course. Okay, then, I’ll just--” Rory jerks a thumb towards the door and then looks at Paris as if waiting for confirmation. 

She looks just about ready to flee the room, her head darting to the side every so often as she looks to the door-- whether she’s watching to see if there’s anybody there or mentally planning her escape, Paris can’t quite tell. She looks down at her shaky wrist. 

_3:49_

“We have eleven minutes,” Paris offers, smiling meekly at Rory. She stops looking at the door, instead at Paris. Her face is about as red as Paris has ever seen it, save for when she’s upset. 

And before anybody even has time to say _ick, sorry, I’m actually extremely straight and any insinuation that I would want to kiss you is likely the result of an aneurysm I didn’t realize I was having until right this second_ Rory has a hand on the back of Paris’s neck and they’re bumping noses. Paris can feel Rory’s breath on her cheek. Rory giggles awkwardly. 

“Sorry.” 

“You’re so clumsy,” Paris accuses. “Don’t trip over a chair.”

“I make no promises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're at the last leg of this fic! finally. It's been a long ride. I have the last two chapters mentally outlined, and i look forward to getting them down on (digital) paper for y'all. Thanks everybody for sticking around! The amount of enthusiasm from commenters so far has been an amazing experience, I'm going to miss it once this is over.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. yes i'm back. again.  
> so, like the last one, this chapter was beta-d by SaltyPistachio! I don't know how to do that cool thing where you imbed the link into the text so here's a lame, regular link: 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltyPistachio/pseuds/SaltyPistachio
> 
> go check it out, they've got some good stuff :)

Paris’s eyes dart around the schoolyard as she paces the area. She’s acutely aware of Rory propped against the wall behind her and the school janitor, who’s wheeling a tray of cleaning supplies across campus. 

In the week since Paris and Rory kissed in the newsroom, the two haven’t had many chances to talk; alone, that is. At Chilton, there’s a constant flow of nosy teenagers who are always off snickering about the latest drama. Too much carelessness and the two of them will _become_ the latest drama. 

Luckily this has yet to happen. Everybody is too focused on the current Tristan scandal to notice what’s been going on between Rory and Paris. All Paris knows is that Tristan, two idiot friends, and a mechanic took apart a teacher’s car and reassembled it in a hallway. Many of Chilton’s students still find it hilarious, even venturing to use the term _legendary_. Paris considers the incident legendarily stupid. 

She hardly cares about Tristan’s antics, though, worrying significantly more about recent developments between herself and Rory. 

Fortunately, having been assigned to the same group project, Rory and Paris now have ample excuses to stay after hours and talk. This way, Chilton is a ghost town and potential eavesdropping is easily avoided. It had only taken a little white lie. _“Right, Nanny, it’s for the group project.”_

“Done yet?” Rory asks from around the granola bar she’s munching on. It lacks the energy of Rory’s usual chirp. Paris attributes this to a long school day. 

“Almost. Patience.” Paris’s gaze follows the janitor around the corner. “Okay, now we’re good.” 

Then the entire boys’ cross-country team is crossing over the parking lot, chattering amicably amongst themselves. Some have shed their jerseys, others looking hideously sweaty. 

“Wait, nevermind. Just a moment.”

“Paris, we’re just talking. They can’t even hear us from here,” Rory reasons her nicest _Paris, you’re being irrational_ voice.

“I know.” 

Unwilling to take her eyes away from the parking lot, Paris backs up and slams against rough brick. Hitting the wall had been intentional. Doing so with such force had not. 

Paris slides dejectedly to the ground and next to Rory, who wordlessly holds out a granola bar. Paris takes it, ripping the foil from the top and shoving half the snack into her mouth at once.

“Hungry, are we?” Rory turns to look at Paris, who keeps her gaze straight ahead. The cross-country team has shrunk into a dark, pulsating blob at the far side of the parking lot. 

“I’m stress eating,” says Paris, then remembering to swallow. “It’s like everybody’s got their filthy eyeballs on me twenty-four seven. Especially now. Although, for the record, it was like that even before I turned gay.”

“You didn’t _turn_ gay,” Rory reminds Paris for what feels like the millionth time. 

“I know, I know.” Paris dismisses the notion with a wave of her hand. “My point is that it’s only gotten worse. Soon they’re just going to smell it in the air. ‘What’s that?’ they’ll say. ‘Paris has something she’d prefer to keep to herself! Oh boy, it’s a scavenger hunt!’ And then whoever also manages to convince me that my nose is ugly gets bonus points.”

Rory repositions her face to right in front of Paris’s, head cocked in concentration. “I don’t think your nose is ugly,” she announces at last. “It’s a very cute nose, actually.” 

Paris cowers away from Rory’s finger, which reaches out to poke her nose. “Please, no.”

“You brought this upon yourself.” 

Batting Rory’s arm away with her hand, Paris feigns a scowl. She’s still too high on the euphoria of Rory liking her back to actually mean it. She polishes off the rest of the granola bar and shoves the wrapper into Rory’s outstretched hand.

“Here.”

Rory stuffs the wrapper into the front pocket of her blazer, not without sticking her tongue discontentedly out at Paris. “Only this time.” 

Craning her head, Paris tries again to locate the cross-country team on the vast expanse of the parking lot. 

“Gone?” Rory looks apprehensively to Paris for confirmation.

“Gone.”

Paris finally braves turning towards Rory, who’s returned to her original spot against the wall. Her calculations reveal themselves to have been faulty: Rory’s face is now a mere two inches away. 

They spend a second studying one another. Paris leans carefully forward to kiss Rory on the mouth before pulling away at the speed of light. She rakes her eyes once more over the campus. It’s empty, because of course it is. Paris doesn’t know what she had been expecting. 

_You paranoid little--_

“Hey.” Paris jerks back around upon being addressed. Rory’s face is close to hers again. Close enough that Paris can feel her breath and study all the different shades of blue in her eyes. Could even count her freckles, given the desire. She doesn’t, because that would be a little weird. “We’re fine.”

“We’re fine,” Paris repeats breathily. Rory leans in for another, deeper kiss. 

There’s something very surreal about their relationship’s drastic evolution, that _something new_ that’s been blossoming for quite some time but has suddenly burst forth in a bright refusal to be ignored. Paris is never first to bring it up for fear that Rory’s eyebrows will furrow in confusion and she’ll say _sorry, what?_

Paris would promptly realize that it’s all been a vivid fever dream-- and that she’s finally woken the hell up. 

This never happens. When Paris pinches herself she feels a little burst of pain and when she holds her breath, she needs to let it out at some point. So she’s got to be awake, right? 

By some anomaly, Rory kisses Paris because she wants to. It’s not a figment of anybody’s imagination, just teenagers being teenagers. It’s only a little hard to pinpoint because Paris has never been a teenager before; not unless you count the bad parts. She’s eager to make up for as many years of girl-craziness lost to compulsory heterosexuality as she can.

“Pretty crazy, huh?” Rory resumes her position against the wall and grasps Paris’s hand. Her skin has gone cold with wind, but Paris can still feel the life bubbling underneath. 

“That we’re together like this?” 

“No, I actually meant that we’re doing _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Rory admits, ducking her face beneath a strand of hair. Paris finds herself wishing she had a time machine to rewind the past two seconds. Rory is looking at her as though she’s having a hard time keeping a straight face, like when Madeline and Louise make an inside joke Paris neither knows nor cares about. “That too, though,” she adds in an attempt at validation. 

“I don’t get why it had to be _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Paris complains in a rush to move on. “It’s the most overdone Shakespeare play out there. His dog must’ve eaten the lesson plans or something because Mr. Medina _clearly_ did not put any thought into this assignment.”

“I think you mispronounced classic,” Rory corrects. 

“Did not. Our education is going to the dumps, and I’ll swear by that.” 

“Say what you want. I know it’s just ‘cuz you don’t want anyone else kissing me.” 

“T-that’s not--” Paris protests. “I mean, we’re not exclusive or anything. _Are_ we? I don’t really know, because it’s not like I’ve ever done anything like this before. Anyways, my point is that I’m not clingy. Unlike Dean, he was totally clingy. I should say I’m an upgrade. Basically, kiss who you want. See if I care. I mean, I _do_ care, sorta, but it’s not like I’m the boss of you, and if it’s only for a Shakespeare grade anyways--” Paris notices Rory giggling at her, a hand raised over her mouth. “What?”

“I was just pulling your leg,” Rory tells Paris with a reassuring pat to her knee. “It’s fun.”

“Not for me!” Irritated, Paris presses her shoes into the concrete and pushes a couple of inches away from Rory. Then she wonders if this is hurtful and is about to clarify that she’s not _actually_ mad when Rory starts laughing again. 

“Wait! Don’t leave me!” Rory holds out her arm dramatically, mouth open in a breathy smile. 

“You just like to see me suffer, don’t you?”

“Maybe a little, but that’s not my fault. You’re just so cute when you work yourself into a ramble.” 

A glare towards Rory, crossed arms for emphasis. Paris catches herself getting too comfortable and glances around the corner (again). She promises herself it’ll be the last time. Her and her internal monologue both know it’s a blatant lie. 

Rory hooks her elbow around Paris’s neck and pulls them back together, burying her chin in Paris’s hair. Paris lets herself be wrangled. 

“So, are you ready for the wonders and atrocities of high school theatre?” 

“I don’t know. I mean, I generally like to consider myself ready for anything, but high school theatre is in its own realm. Especially with Tristan involved. Bleh. I like to think that I’ve been taking this whole performing arts thing in stride, though. I’ve even taken the liberty of getting us some killer props, so we’re going to crush those other teams like blueberries.” Then it occurs to Paris that reciprocation might be expected. “How about you? Any experience?”

“When I was in elementary school they cast me for a lead role in _Charlotte’s Web_ ,” Rory boasts with more pride than is warranted. “Fourth grade.”

Paris makes a face. “Ick. Why didn’t they just do _Animal Farm_? Same story. Far more realistic. Just cut to the chase, humanity sucks ass and should be overtaken by pigs.”

“Fourth grade.” 

“Right. So, who did you play? Charlotte?”

“Fern.”

Not what Paris would call a lead role, but it makes sense; Rory basically _is_ Fern Arable. She’s got the compassion, that’s for sure. Fourth Grade Rory probably cried when Wilbur was about to get the axe, and she _definitely_ cried over Charlotte. Possibly still would. 

“Oh, my gosh, you’re such a dork,” Paris teases. “Did your mom take pictures? Or is there a video out there?” 

“Maybe she did, Paris,” says Rory. “Maybe she did, and you’d be perfectly welcome to see, because I have a healthy self-image that can handle my…” She trails off.

“To be determined.” 

“...my _person_ seeing embarrassing pictures of me from fourth grade.” 

It’s silly, but Paris thinks she melts a little at this. “I’m your person?”

“For lack of a better term,” Rory allows. She goes a couple seconds without saying anything. The tension gradually thickens until Paris amends as much by cutting through the atmosphere with the grace of a three-legged bull. 

“What? You got all quiet. Is it something I said? Is this an inherently awkward situation? Shit.” 

“I was just wondering. What _is_ our relationship? Are we girlfriends? Maybe we’re dating in our own, bizarro way. Or is this--” she shoots a meaningful look at Paris “-- just, you know…” 

“I don’t know, actually.” Paris says it flatly to mask any stress or anxiety in her tone. 

“Are we just people who kiss sometimes?” And, crap, there’s that expectant, wide-eyed expression that means _I’ll get back to you on that_ is not an acceptable answer. So Paris gets to thinking. 

Her first instinct is that no, they’re not just _people who kiss sometimes_ ; while this description is technically accurate, they’re also so much more. Besides, Paris hasn’t endured all of this drama and all of these _feelings_ for a PG-13 friends with benefits situation. 

They’re not dating, though. They’ve never gone on a date-- Paris doesn’t count the festival. It had ended in tears and, more pressingly, never officially been declared a date. 

They can’t be girlfriends if they’ve never been on a single date. 

Paris wonders if now is the time to amend as much. _Not now, brain. Rory asked you a question and you’ve spent ten seconds staring at her like she’s wearing an ugly hat._

This particular thought jerks Paris back to the reality where the level of concern on Rory’s face accelerates rapidly (she has very transparent facial expressions). _Shit, Paris, say something!_

“The, uh, the last one,” Paris finally announces.

The thing is, Paris doesn’t want to cram herself and Rory into a box just yet; while Paris would love to be in that box, she cannot say the same for Rory. Besides, it would be much easier to move up a rung on the relationship ladder than it would be to step down one. At the end of the day, it seems like the safest bet; Paris wouldn’t want to overshoot.

(Okay, so maybe this is all just a roundabout way of saying that Paris is afraid of rejection.)

Her entire line of reasoning is undermined when Rory’s face drops. She quickly forces it into a look of indifference. 

“Oh. Okay.” Rory nods a few too many times, then bites down on her lower lip. 

“I mean,” Paris continues, feeling the need to explain herself, “it’s not that I don’t like you that much, because I do. I just don’t want to bite off more than I can chew, you know? When I hear that phrase, I imagine a massive steak, a-and steak is really chewy. I think that if our relationship were a steak, it would be a really chewy one. A good steak, but-- okay, this is one hell of a weird metaphor, but you get it. I hope you get it. You get it, right?” 

“Yeah. I get it, I get it,” Rory agrees. Her voice sounds a little off-kilter-- too high, maybe?-- but she doesn’t sound _upset_ , by any means. Paris isn’t sure what she’d been expecting. She finds herself puzzled nonetheless. 

Rory pulls away from Paris and pushes herself to her feet. “I’ve got to go. My mom is expecting me back soon.” 

“Oh.” Paris rises next to her, frowning. They’ve only been talking for fifteen minutes, and that’s the generous estimation. “Are you sure you couldn’t stay for a couple more minutes? We really _do_ need to work on that project--”

“Nope, sory,” Rory concludes. She stares awkwardly at Paris, then shakes her head and takes a step back, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Alright. You take care. Gotta scoot!” 

Rory scoops her backpack off the ground and heads around the corner in a speed-walk of sorts. Paris stares after her, wondering if she’s said or done something wrong. Rory’s not usually cold with her. Typically when Rory is mad, she makes sure that Paris knows it. This is different and somehow worse. 

Then Paris remembers that overthinking absolutely everything is her fatal flaw. Past experience suggests that she’s overthinking _this_. Rory just needs to use the bathroom or something. Maybe the bus is about to leave without her. Either way, it’s not something Paris needs to worry about, so when she retreats back to her BMW she’s still in a fairly good mood. 

“See you tomorrow,” Paris calls after Rory as an afterthought; it might be in vain because she’s already nowhere to be seen. 

***

“We _booked_ it,” says Paris for the thousandth time as she paces up and down an empty hallway. It’s nearly dark out, the only source of light being the bright patches across the ceiling. 

Paris, Rory, Madeline, Louise, Brad, and Tristan were supposed to rehearse for act five of _Romeo and Juliet_ in Chilton’s auditorium. Paris has brought Madeline and Louise to scope out the area beforehand, with everybody else joining them in half an hour. Mostly because Paris doesn’t want to deal with Tristan’s nonsense for longer than is strictly necessary. 

Infuriatingly, some other group has hijacked the space and refuses to clear out. Madeline is in the school’s computer room looking for an alternate space to audition while Louise and Paris attempt to get the other group kicked out through furious and constant reminders that they have the damn place booked. 

Suffice to say it doesn’t work. Presently, Paris paces the hall like a restless tiger while Louise gives her the side-eye.

“Girl, take a chill pill,” says Louise as Paris advances towards her, taking the opportunity to grab her by both shoulders and anchor her into place. Paris manages to struggle out of her grip but doesn’t go back to pacing. 

“Take a chill pill?” Paris repeats incredulously. “A _chill pill_? Louise! This project is fifty percent of our _grade_ , and you want me to take a chill pill? If anything, _you_ should take a not-chill pill so you can realize how dire our predicament is!” As Paris says it, she knows that Louise is silently judging her for using the word _predicament_ casually in conversation. She’s too caught up in said predicament to care. 

“Well, it’s not dire anymore. I went to check up on Madeline, and she found this old dance studio that’ll do the trick. She’s already booked it.” 

Paris, though still bitter about having the auditorium pulled from under her feet, relaxes at this. “Well, that’s something,” she grumbles. “Did she check the square footage?” 

Louise neglects to answer this as she leads Paris into the computer room. 

“That means no, doesn’t it?” 

Paris suspects that Madeline has not, in fact, checked the square footage. They’re desperate enough that it’s little more than a minor annoyance. 

“What kind of dance studio takes reservations an hour ahead of time, anyways?” Paris continues. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad. Just thinking that Madeline’s probably gotten us in at the most middle-of-nowhere building ever. With tumbleweed and everything. Unless she pulled some strings, that is.”

“Do you really think Madeline cares enough to pull strings?” Louise raises her eyebrows dubiously. 

“Good point,” Paris agrees as they walk into the computer room. 

Apparently nobody has thought to turn on a light. Paris can tell which computer Madeline is using easily from the way it glows through the darkness. She walks towards it, opening her mouth to say something to a beaming Madeline when she sees the picture of the studio. It looks awfully familiar, but Paris can’t place how until she remembers what it was she’d said less than a minute ago. 

_...the most middle-of-nowhere building ever._

Just to be sure, Paris checks the url of the website. 

_misspatty.net_

“We can’t rehearse here,” Paris blurts out suddenly. She’s unable to look away from the pictures on the screen, as if mesmerized by terror. Both Madeline and Louise look confused as they turn to her.

“What? I checked the square footage,” reasons Madeline. 

“Good for you. We still can’t rehearse here.”

“Why not?” asks Louise. 

“We just can’t!” Paris snaps, backing away from the computer like a cat from a bathtub.

Just _looking_ at the pictures-- clearly taken a long time ago, Paris notes-- feels awful. It’s really way too soon to go back there. Paris realizes that she’s already spiraling into fight or flight mode. Being there would be a living nightmare. Not to mention that this Miss Patty woman would _definitely_ recognize her. 

Then again, do they really have anywhere else to rehearse? Paris had said it herself; it would be way too short notice to book any other studios. They _could_ break into an empty classroom, but then they’d risk suspension if caught; particularly Paris and Rory after that incident with The Puffs. Plus, the acoustics would be all wrong. 

The more Paris thinks about it, the more the whole thing seems irrational. You don’t let _one_ traumatic incident get in the way of your grade for an entire Shakespeare class. 

“Fifty percent of our grade,” Louise reminds her in a singsong voice so Paris sighs heavily and gives in.

“I’ll call Rory.” 

***

“ _...the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss,”_ Tristan recites, revealing a shot glass of water from under his hand. 

He leans dramatically over Rory, and Paris can’t help but be a little irritated that he half-asses _every other project_ \-- the guy has just gotten back from suspension and is already knee-deep in trouble again-- but feels the need to put full effort and drama into this one. Madeline and Louise both have wide eyes glued to him. Paris sighs. 

Now that she’s actually in the studio, Paris has to admit that it’s not that bad. It had been a little overwhelming at first, the scent of the piney walls and the rough wood of the door that Rory still has light scars on her hands from, but it feels like any other dance studio at this point. Exposure therapy, she supposes. All she has to do is keep her eyes on the dead girl on the table and not let herself think too hard. 

“ _A dateless bargain to engrossing death._ ” 

The more Paris considers this play, the more disgusting the whole show is; Juliet is remarkably thirteen. Society really needs to pull the title of the most romantic love story from the damn thing and remarket it as a story about the horrors of when the pressure to be romanced is pushed onto teenagers. 

“ _Come, bitter conduct. Come, unsavory guide. Thou desperate pilot, now at once go on_ \--”

“Run on,” Paris corrects, glaring at him. Tristan ignores her. 

It’s really strange to remember that Paris has gone on a date with this guy. It feels like that happened _years_ ago, even though it had only been last school year. In a way, Paris is proud that she’s no longer that person. That person who would chase after guys’ approval and, by extension, everybody else’s. Or maybe the past few months have just been too condensed with everything that’s happened for the Tristan thing to still feel like a big deal. 

“ _\--the dashing rocks thy seasick, weary bark. Here’s to my love!”_ Tristan throws back the shot glass, wincing exaggeratedly. 

Paris rolls her eyes, wanting to shout at him that it’s just water. Unless he’s switched it with vodka, which Paris would hardly put past him. She leans in slightly to try and read Rory’s expression. She’s doing a good enough job of being dead that it’s pointless. 

“ _O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss, I die._ ” 

Paris stiffens at this, her knuckles grasping around the stool she’s sitting on. Performance or not, she hates the idea of Tristan kissing Rory. She tries and fails to remain neutral. Who the hell does he think he is? It manages to feel like a personal attack even with Tristan oblivious to Paris’s feelings for Rory. 

“And then I kiss her, right?” Tristan looks to Paris for approval. Paris takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” she says very calmly and rationally. 

Of course, Tristan can’t simply _kiss_ Rory. He has to make a big production of staring wistfully down at her first, taking long enough that Rory’s eyes flit open in confusion and she props herself up on her elbows. 

“You’re dead,” Paris reminds Rory flatly. 

“Right, sorry.” Rory falls back on the table and her eyes close, yet Tristan fails to kiss her. 

“Stage fright?” Paris taunts him. 

“No.” Tristan turns towards Paris. “I’m just struggling here as an artist. _How_ should I kiss her?” 

“I can show you,” Louise offers far too quickly. 

Tristan makes a show of considering it before sighing heavily (as if he doesn’t love the attention). “No, no. I just need to make it as special as our _first_ kiss.”

Of course, Paris already knows that Tristan and Rory have kissed. It’s a story which Rory has regaled her with before: stupid Dean dumps Rory, Rory is sad, Summer dumps stupid Tristan, Tristan is sad, there’s a party, they kiss; Rory cries, Tristan’s manly ego is damaged. Paris is still so beyond ticked off that he’s chosen _now_ to mention it that she feels like she’s about to pop a blood vessel. 

“I think you can swing it,” Paris deadpans. She flicks her wrist in an impatient gesture. “Get on with it.”

Tristan turns his attention to Paris, eyebrows raised. He’s got that mischievous look on his face like he’s trying to cause trouble. “And what does _that_ mean?” 

Paris glances once more to Rory, half expecting her to rise from the dead and cut into the conversation. She and Brad seem like the only people in the room who aren’t inherently drama magnets, yet she doesn’t even twitch, save for the steady rise and fall of her chest. So Paris takes matters into her own hands. 

“Well, I doubt _that_ kiss was all that special,” she retorts. “Rebounds never are.” 

Paris knows from the way that Madeline stiffens next to her that the word _rebound_ is, in teenager language, an insult of the highest degree. Paris hadn’t meant it like that; she’d only been speaking the truth. Madeline and Louise share a knowing glance before their eyes flicker right back to Tristan. Paris follows their gaze. 

Tristan has stood up from the table Rory lies on, and is walking towards Paris with his lips firmly pressed together. 

“Rebound?” he demands. 

Paris doesn’t _really_ want to get into this with him, especially when they’re supposed to be working on a project, but she’s never been one to back down from a fight. She puts on her most innocent face and spits out a response. “Well, if the shoe fits.” 

“Rebound,” says Tristan again, as if considering. “Huh.” 

“Yeah,” Paris agrees in mock pity. “A shame, isn’t it?” 

Tristan continues towards Paris in small, threatening steps. Paris doesn’t cower away, instead meeting his gaze. Brad scoots a few cautious inches away from her. 

“Just between you and me, I wasn’t a _rebound_. I’d say that the only reason Rory has yet to go out with me is because her feelings for me are so strong that she can’t even _handle_ them.”

“Oh, right!” Paris smacks herself sarcastically on the forehead. “I forgot that you’ve suddenly developed mind-reading powers. I must have missed your Jedi initiation. My bad.” 

“Does she know how _Star Wars_ works?” Brad whispers conspiratorially to nobody in particular. 

“When you’re as popular with the ladies as I am, it becomes a sixth sense, see,” Tristan explains. He runs a hand over his face and through his hair. It leaves a smirk in its wake. “Not that you would know.” 

“Right. Right, I don’t know. Wouldn’t. Because I’m not popular with the ladies, nor would I ever want to be,” Paris says, glancing self-consciously around the room to ensure that she’s got everybody convinced. “But I _do_ know how to read people, and Rory’s just not that into you. Sorry, buddy, but I think it’s high time you lick your wounds and--” she makes a shoving motion “-- get out of there.” 

“If she wasn’t into me, then why would she kiss me?” Tristan challenges, shoving his thumbs-- _only_ his thumbs, the freak-- into the pockets of his jeans. It’s as if he thinks it looks cool or something. “Didn’t think of _that,_ huh?”

“So maybe she liked you at some point.” The admission hurts Paris’s pride a little. She decides it’s all she’s going to give him. “Y’know, back when Mr. T-rex was still running around. But she’s _over_ you now, okay?” 

“Rory hasn’t even kissed anybody since then. Hasn’t gotten back with Grocery Boy, either. I hardly think she’s _over_ me.”

Paris has to bite down on her lip to control the urge to shout back a rebuttal which she would later regret very, very much.

“You don’t know _who_ Rory’s kissed,” she says instead, leaning forward with a scowl. 

Rory pops up like a jack-in-the-box toy at this, her face flushed red. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” she snaps. “I expect this stuff from _you_ , Tristan, but Paris? _Really?_ ”

“He was being a jerk!” Paris defends herself, all the while feeling a wave of guilt wash over her; she really _had_ been talking about Rory like a possession, throwing down with Tristan over her like two dogs with a chew toy. _Cut it out, Paris, you’re not a caveman_. 

“Sorry,” she adds, ducking her head down, because Rory still looks pissed off and Paris really can’t blame her. 

Rory’s gaze softens, though she still looks heavily exasperated and a little frustrated. There’s a stray lock of hair flung over her face, probably left over from the momentum of having sprung up so suddenly. “That’s-- you know what, don’t worry about it. Now, could I take five?”

“But this was just getting good,” Madeline whines. 

“Let’s all take five,” Paris cuts in. She needs nothing if not some fresh, Tristan-free air and a chance to stretch her legs. 

_I really don’t have my best moments in this place..._

“Girl, that was _awesome_ ,” rhapsodizes Louise once Rory has stalked out of the building. Tristan follows in an irritating saunter. She smacks Paris excitedly on the arm. She’s practically got stars in her eyes. “You need to start drama more often. I mean it.”

“For real,” Madeline agrees, seeming similarly awed.

“I’m, uh, going to go use the restroom,” Brad announces, rising from his stool. He looks nervous, as though he feels the need to ask permission.

“Good for you,” Paris deadpans. Brad wipes a hand across his forehead before darting out the back door.

“I’m going to head out for a moment, too,” Paris tells the two of them, eyeing the door. 

“Gonna have another _chat_ with Romeo?” Madeline says it with a mischievous sort of giggle.

“Something like that,” mutters Paris, already walking away. 

It’s not too hard to find Rory; she hasn’t strayed far from the building. She seems to be walking around in circles. It’s reminiscent of Paris’s pacing from earlier, if more relaxed.

Paris isn’t initially sure whether or not her presence will be welcome, but since she’s never been one for subtlety, she decides to go for it. She looks around to make sure there are no familiar faces. When she finds none, she walks up to Rory.

“Uh, sorry about fighting with Tristan like that,” she mutters. Rory looks up in surprise, evidently having just noticed Paris’s presence. She stops in her tracks. Paris can see her breath drift through the cold air. “It’s okay.” Rory says it in a detached sort of tone. Not as though she’s angry, more as though she’s disappointed. Paris _hates_ disappointing people; she’d rather be hated. 

“No, really,” Paris persists. “You’re doing that _thing_ some people do where they’re all _don’t worry about me_ and _it’s fine_ but then they walk around with this perpetually pissed off look on their face and give you the cold shoulder. I don’t want you to give me the cold shoulder. If you’re mad, just yell at me. I can take it.”

Paris looks at Rory expectantly. _Come at me,_ she thinks. Rory gives a cold huff of laughter. 

“Paris, nothing’s your fault. I’m not mad at you. You’re not going to get me to yell at you, either.”

Paris remains unconvinced. “Oh, really? So now I get the _it’s not you, it’s me_ talk? Give it to me straight, Gilmore.” Finally, she lays her hand down on Rory’s shoulder and stares her directly in the eyes. Rory shoves both of her hands in her coat pocket and sighs. 

“I’m tired of being Juliet,” she says at last.

“Oh. I can always give Louise the role, if you want. Or Madeline,” Paris quickly assures her. She’s pleasantly surprised by the problem’s simple solution. “You’d be best for the job, but I understand if you don’t wanna lay around all dead and let that moron kiss you--” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Rory cuts in. 

“Oh.” Paris finds that she is at a loss. “Well, what _did_ you mean?” 

“Well, with Dean, I just sort of let myself be charmed. And he did. He flirted with me, and he kissed me, and then we were a thing. Just like that. I let him take the reins.”

Paris feels a heavy knot of sorts forming in her chest. Rory soliloquizing over her time spent with Dean is _not_ good. 

“It’s always like that,” Rory continues. “I don’t really act very assertive. It’s why I ran off, and why I didn’t just, you know, _tell_ you that the festival thing was supposed to be a date. Why you were the one who kissed me, and not the other way around. Because I was thinking about it. But I _am_ assertive, damn it. I’m very assertive. If you want to go to Harvard, you’ve _got_ to be assertive.” 

Paris’s breath hitches, and she realizes that she has no idea what the point of this speech is. “What are you saying?” 

Rory sucks in a deep breath, and then her face hardens with determination. Her nose scrunches up ever so slightly, her eyes narrow, and her lips set into a thin line. She tucks that stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not going to wait around for you to take the next step. A-and I don’t know if you want the same things as me, necessarily, and it’s fine if we’re just not on the same page or if you’re just not ready, but I don’t want you as-- as that girl from high school who I kissed a couple of times. I want you to be my girlfriend.” 

Paris’s eyes widen and her brain momentarily short-circuits as she considers this. For a second, the world as a whole just feels like some strange dreamland. Everything goes fuzzy and soft as she’s flung into the depths of her thoughts, trying to process it all. 

“I-- really?” she stutters out eventually. “After that whole display with Tristan?” 

Rory’s mouth opens slightly, and Paris can see the whites of her teeth for a second as she chuckles. “I mean, he sort of had it coming,” she admits. 

“He did, didn’t he?”

“So…” Rory trails off, cocking her head to the side. Her hair looks darker than usual in the moonlight, her face somehow paler. “Do you want that?” 

Paris can hardly believe this is a question Rory feels she has to ask, because who _wouldn’t_ want to be Rory Gilmore’s girlfriend? She’s the girl all of the boys from Chilton swoon over, the perfect, pretty girl with the smarts and the compassion and that sense of being _just_ far enough out of everyone’s reach to be appealing. Paris isn’t like that, though. It’s about more than the chase. It’s that surreal sense of happiness, the way that Rory can make her feel like she’s not a mess, she’s just _human_ . The way, with Rory, _human_ doesn’t feel like a jibe or a defect. 

Rory is one of the most human people Paris has ever met, but she’s also one of the most beautiful, inside and out. 

“Seriously?” asks Paris incredulously. “Is that even a question?”

“I mean, if you don’t--”

“Of _course_ I do, you idiot,” Paris bursts out. She grabs Rory by the collar of her coat and pulls her forward, kissing her clumsily. Once she has a better grip, she slides her hand to the back of Rory’s neck and through her hair, grasping on as tightly as she can because if she lets go Rory’s very being may drift away like mist. 

It’s not a perfect kiss, because Paris isn’t actually that great of a kisser. Rory isn’t either. Now that the novelty of being able to kiss Rory whenever she wants has worn off, she seems much less graceful. Paris doesn’t care. Rory doesn’t seem to, either. In fact, she seems rather delighted by the development when Paris pulls her mouth away, still holding their foreheads together. She giggles. 

“If you really want to be my girlfriend, why didn’t you just _tell_ me when I asked the other day?” asks Rory. 

“I thought you were just being nice,” Paris admits. “And that if I actually chose that option you’d find some way to get yourself out of it.”

“I see.” Rory wraps her hands around Paris’s neck, under her hair. She clasps her fingers together. They’re still so incredibly close. Paris has to stay on her tiptoes to meet her gaze. Rory finally leans away when Paris nearly trips from having to balance. She relocates her hands to around Paris’s wrists. “So, how do you wanna do this? Keep it under wraps for now, or just go for it?”

“I say both,” Paris proposes. “Everybody here in Stars Hollow already sort of knows, right? So we might as well just be ourselves around here. Not _aggressively_ ourselves, if you know what I mean--” Rory blushes at this “-- just, we shouldn’t go out of our way to hide anything.”

Rory nods. Encouraged, Paris continues.

“But I’d rather keep it under our collective metaphor hat when we’re back in Hartford, if that’s okay. Is that okay?” 

“Of course,” Rory assures Paris. “I totally get it. The political climate in Stars Hollow is really different from in Hartford. Even though they’re only, like, forty minutes apart. Actually, it’s sorta weird.”

“Exactly!” Paris exclaims, feeling validated. “Crazy stuff. It must come down to the whole small town thing. I wonder if it’s just because you guys haven’t been beaten down by society yet. Because there’s less society. Which still doesn’t make much sense, but it’s the best theory I can come up with at the moment.” 

“I don’t know, I think there’s something to it,” muses Rory, putting a thoughtful finger to the corner of her lips. Her other hand is still clutched onto Paris’s wrist.

Paris takes a glance at the studio’s door. They’ve turned the corner so as not to be seen by any of their classmates, and it takes craning her neck to be able to see it. 

“I think it’s been five.”

“You’re right.” Rory sighs, pulling her hand from Paris and backing away a couple of steps. “They’re probably waiting for us. See you when we’re done?”

“Of course.” 

***

“ _Thus, with a kiss, I die._ ” Tristan looks very purposefully to Paris as he says this; after their argument earlier, he’s been trying his best to provoke her. Paris is not provoked, instead just sitting on her stool and smiling serenely. She can’t bring herself to be annoyed by Tristan’s antics, because she’s far too happy. She has a girlfriend now, after all.

Mentally Paris is absent from the rehearsal, because she can’t stop replaying that moment with Rory in her mind. She doesn’t even mind that Madeline, Louise, and Tristan glance over at her every two minutes and look disappointed when she doesn’t leap at Tristan to try and strangle him.

The funniest part is that they probably think it’s about Tristan. They think that Rory and Paris are fighting over _Tristan_ , and Paris is taking it out on him because she’s eternally bitter over having been friend-zoned. _They have no idea, do they?_

When Paris looks at Rory, lying dead on the table, she finds that her girlfriend has a smirk on her face. A quiet, unintrusive one, but a smirk all the same. 

Paris isn’t even phased when Tristan leans down and gives Rory a deep, dramatic kiss. In fact, she praises his performance. “Very theatrical, Tristan. Keep it up.”

Tristan looks over at Paris once more as if trying to dig up a hint of passive-aggression to exploit, but finds nothing. 

“You’re in such a good mood,” notes Madeline, seeming confused. “That’s not normal.”

“Yeah, girl,” Louise adds. “It’s spooky.” 

“What can I say? The sky is blue, and the stars are out. It’s a lovely night.” 

Madeline and Louise exchange an alarmed look. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” Madeline slowly backs away from Paris as she says this. 

Paris, in a radically uncharacteristic gesture, leans out and wraps her arms around Madeline, partly because it’s fun to see how thoroughly terrified her reaction is and partly because she’s in a good mood, damn it. “Yeah, about that. Thanks for being friends, you two.” 

“Aww.” Madeline leans her face away from Paris to grin toothily at her. “You really _do_ care!” 

“Okay, I’m over it,” Paris announces, promptly releasing Madeline, who doesn’t seem too bothered.

“ _There’s_ the Paris we know and love,” says Louise. 

***

“Shit.” Paris pinches the bridge of her nose, tilting her head in the air and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “We’re on in seven minutes, where _is_ he? Shit!” 

She and Rory are in one of Chilton’s many hallways, trying and failing to find Tristan before they have to go up for their act of _Romeo and Juliet_. All of the other kids are putting up mediocre performances, and Paris is confident that their group can crush them-- so long as they’ve got a competent Romeo. Which they don’t. 

“Maybe Brad could be Romeo,” Rory suggests, putting a placating hand on Paris’s wrist. Too irritated to be comforted, Paris pulls away.

“Rory, don’t you get it? This is fifty percent of our grade. That’s _half!_ We can’t just let Brad take over as Romeo!” 

Rory narrows her eyes. She looks very cute and non-threatening in that Shakespearean hat, but Paris is willing to listen to what she has to say (even if she’s wrong) because that’s how you maintain a relationship: communication. Paris would know. She has a girlfriend now. 

“What’s wrong with Brad?”

“Besides the fact that he’ll start projectile vomiting if we put him on the spot?”

“About that. I think he was exaggerating.”

“And if he wasn’t?” This is a reasonably good point; this particular chance is a one that neither Rory nor Paris want to take. 

“Point taken. So, what do you suggest?” 

Paris had not been intending to debut her portrayal of Romeo tonight-- she’s instead opted for the relatively minor role of Friar Laurence, despite Rory having begged her to play Paris-- but there’s an extra wig in the back and she’s not afraid to use it for the sake of her Shakespeare grade (and a chance to one-up Tristan). 

“Well, I could--” 

Paris is interrupted by the sound of a squeaky door hinge and footsteps. She and Rory both turn around to find Tristan standing there in all of his late, sulky glory. 

“Tristan, where have you _been_?” Paris demands, marching angrily up to him. “We’re going on in five mi--” Then she feels a hand on her shoulder and turns around. Rory shakes her head lightly enough that for a moment Paris thinks she’s imagining it. Then she turns back to Tristan and sees what Rory means. 

Tristan doesn’t look like himself. He’s lacking his usual smirk, and his hair is rumpled in a way that suggests he _actually_ hasn’t taken the time to comb. Usually he’s just aspiring towards that scruffy look he mistakenly thinks is cool. He’s standing a ways back from Rory and Paris and his eyelids sag slightly in exhaustion. His whole hands are shoved in his pockets, not just his thumbs. 

“I can’t play Romeo,” Tristan says numbly. 

Paris opens her mouth to shout at him, only refraining upon remembering that Rory wouldn’t want that. Instead she backs away with a muttered “I’ll get the wig.” 

In any other situation, Paris would want to stick around and listen to the conversation that follows. Unfortunately, she currently has no time to do so. She has less than five minutes to become the Romeo to Rory’s Juliet. While she has already engaged the proper headspace (suicidally lovesick teenage boy, Paris thinks she can sell it) she hardly looks the part. She _does_ hear a small snippet as she scurries off. 

“...dad had me pulled out of school.” That would be Tristan. 

Paris throws open the door of the locker room the students have been using for changing and some light makeup. 

The room looks like an old-timey wardrobe has puked all over it. While only Paris’s group has chosen a classic Shakespearean time period (not boring, just practical), nobody has gone modern. A bit surprising, given how enthralled teenagers seem to be with modern pop-culture. 

“Is Romeo here yet?” asks Madeline with a mild sort of interest. 

“Not Romeo, just Tristan,” grunts Paris as she pulls her shirt over her head to replace it with what was supposed to have been the top half of Tristan’s costume. It’s a little baggy, but with three minutes on the clock, Paris decides to forgo the safety pins and move on to the pants. Madeline and Louise look at each other questioningly. Then they both shrug, having learned not to question Paris a very long time ago. 

It’s with five seconds remaining that Paris sprints onto the set. Rory is settled on a wooden stool behind a curtain to keep her out of the crowd’s view for scenes she’s not in, like the first one. She sees Paris’s predicament and gives an incredulous snort, raising her eyebrows. The corner of her lips is quirked into an entertained smile. There’s also a hint of affection that Paris hardly has time to process before throwing herself onto the scene in what the audience probably views as an excessively dramatic entrance. 

Paris has never been one for stage fright, but she hasn’t had any opportunity to practice the scene as Romeo. Her throat is dry and she can’t remember how the scene starts. Then she catches sight of Lorelai in the crowd. Lorelai seems just as amused as Rory had and offers a nod of approval. The scene gradually returns to Paris’s mind. She takes a mental note to speak slowly.

“ _If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep…_ ”

From there, Paris more or less goes on autopilot. She feels vaguely guilty for the mechanical delivery of the lines but, hey, she’s doing her best. She mostly just looks at Lorelai for encouragement, which only works as well as one could expect. 

Paris thanks her lucky stars for the fact that Friar Laurence and Romeo are never present at the same time during act five (not until Romeo dies, but they aren’t doing the whole act. In summary, the logistics of having Paris and Paris’s corpse in the same room are not something that they have to deal with). 

It still takes some pretty superhuman speed to get into the dressing room, throw on a new wig, and zoom back in time for the next scene, a bead of sweat dripping down her forehead. Rory’s smile has grown, and she’s given up trying to hide her delight. Paris scowls at her and sprints back in front of the curtain.

It feels a little silly-- everybody in the crowd can tell that they are the same person-- but there’s nothing Paris can do about that. At least she’s practiced enough for Friar Laurence to put on a decent performance this time. 

Friar Laurence is easy. Romeo is...well. 

Some lines are harder than others; for example, Paris has a bit of a hard time keeping a straight face saying “ _...and breathed such life with kisses in my lips…_ ” and she thinks she sees Rory blushing slightly during lines such as the one about the _crimson in thy lips_ (seriously, what was with this guy and lips?), but others she has little to no trouble with. 

“ _For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes this vault a feasting presence full of light,_ ” Paris recites at some point and she can’t help but think, standing over Rory and taking in the every curve of her face, that the line rings true for her as well as Juliet. 

“ _...thus, with a kiss, I die_ ,” Paris finishes eventually. She looks down at Rory and finds that she hasn’t considered whether or not she intends to actually kiss Rory.

For a moment, she thinks she’s going to do it; the situation has set itself up way too flawlessly to pass up. Nobody would ever suspect anything, not for a second. They would be hiding in plain sight. Lorelai would be the only one in that whole crowd to see through it. Besides, Rory is right there, waiting to be kissed. After all that talk of kissing and _crimson lips,_ it’s really quite tempting. 

Then Paris remembers that, after this, she will have every opportunity in the world to kiss Rory. She feels no obligation to kiss Rory for an audience, as part of a performance as fake as Tristan’s entire personality. That, mixed into an odd cocktail with the fact that Paris gets a sudden case of cold feet, results in no kiss. Later, when asked to account for this creative decision to a teacher, Paris will explain that it was to make a statement about how love should not be represented with or measured by physical affection when it’s really about so much more.

In her defense, Paris more than makes up for the lack of a kiss through the force with which she slams her face down into Rory’s chest. 

***

Now that the performance is over, Rory and Paris sit in the Gilmore Jeep in front of Luke’s, Rory with a burger in front of her and Paris with a salad. They share a large basket of fries.

Neither or them say it, but the reason they’re not actually in the diner is that, with the incident at the town meeting still fresh in everybody’s mind, they’d rather stay out of the public eye until it’s nothing more than a blip in the history of Stars Hollow. They _have_ been taking baby steps, though; the fact that Paris had come to town at all and let herself be seen with Rory sans a paper bag over her head is progress in and of itself.

Paris squints at the inside of Luke’s, eyeing the diner’s namesake as he chats with Lorelai. Lorelai is leaned attentively over the counter, and Luke is grinning.

“Is it just me, or is she totally flirting with him?” Paris asks, flicking a thick fry through a little container of ketchup and stuffing it into her mouth.

“My mom and Luke?” Rory says it with a disbelieving chuckle. “No way.”

“Look. She’s doing the leany thing.”

“What leany thing?”

“Leaning over the counter,” Paris explains, using a fry to point to Lorelai’s figure. It’s not stiff enough to comply, but it gets the idea across. “I imagine it gives him a better view of her tits which, if my hypothesis is correct, would be the goal.” 

Rory looks utterly scandalized as she smacks Paris on the arm, knocking the fry out of her hand. “Paris! Do not talk about my mother’s tits.” She cringes. “Geez, I don’t even like that word. It sounds weird. Although maybe that’s just because you’re talking about my _mother_. Where do you even learn this stuff?”

“Madeline and Louise.”

“Say no more.” 

They sit in silence for a moment more. Paris hasn’t really touched her salad; as it turns out, fries are a lot much more fun to eat. Then, as if to prove Paris’s point, Lorelai leans even further over the counter, closer to Luke. She reaches out a hand and strokes his jaw. Knowing them, she’s probably making some joke about the pathetic smattering of stubble on his chin, but Paris sees her opening and takes it.

“Ha! Look at them. Are you _seeing_ this?”

“Yeah, I’m seeing this,” Rory admits. 

“ _Oh, Luke, you’re so ruggedly handsome_ ,” intones Paris in her best Lorelai impression. It’s pretty spot-on, in her humble opinion. 

“Stop it,” begs Rory, burying her face in her hands with a strangled groan that’s also sort of a laugh. 

“Just saying.” 

Paris takes her plastic fork and stabs at a crouton with it. The crouton only splits in half, refusing to be speared onto the fork. 

“Hey, scoot over,” Rory says, and before Paris has any opportunity to actually do so, Rory has slid onto Paris’s seat and is squished up against her. She’s getting Thousand Island on Paris’s leg. Paris has to prop an elbow against the window and rest her chin against her hand to keep from getting smushed to the side. “Here, try this,” Rory invites, raising her burger up to Paris’s mouth. “I feel like you’re being starved right now. I feel bad.”

“Well, don’t.” Paris makes no move to push the burger away, but she does cower back because it smells in a weird, fast-foody way that she’s not sure she likes. “That burger was a one-time thing. I tried it. It was fine. I toed the line, flirted with the other side. It was an experience, but I’ll stick to salad, thanks.” 

“Suit yourself,” says Rory. Then she gets distracted, looking back into Luke’s. “What is she doing?” Paris follows her gaze to find Lorelai waving a doughnut in circles around Luke’s face. 

Then, for the fun of it and because Rory is distracted, Paris leans in and takes a large bite of the burger Rory has forgotten to remove from her face. It’s a fine burger, but nobody has brought napkins and now the Thousand Island is not just on Paris’s pants. Rory shrieks in surprise, yanking her hand away. “You bit my finger!” 

“Sorry,” mumbles Paris entirely unapologetically through a mouthful of burger. Really, Rory had been asking for it. Rory laughs. 

“Gross,” she says, shoving Paris’s face away from her with one hand. There’s little enough room between Paris and the door of the car that it doesn’t really work. 

Then, because she is a responsible mother, Lorelai is poking her head into the car door to ensure that they’re not canoodling in the back seat, at which point they both assure her otherwise. It takes a pointed look from Rory to convince Paris not to make some comment about her and Luke. 

When Lorelai leaves, Paris goes back to her salad, finally getting serious about finishing it. She stabs through a couple of ranch-soaked leaves with her fork and asks Rory, “So, what was the deal with Tristan?”

Rory puts her burger back down onto her tray, her playful mood waning slightly. “It’s actually sorta sad. I mean, he totally deserved it, but it was sad anyways.”

“Oh?” Paris adds a half of a cherry tomato to her bite of salad before cramming it into her mouth. 

“You know his idiot friends, Duncan and Bowman?” Paris gives a grunt of confirmation, still chewing. “Well, he got into one of their dad’s safe. I forget which one, not important. Anyways, his dad got pissed and pulled him out of school. He’s going to military school now.”

Paris cringes sympathetically. “I can get why he wouldn’t want to keep wasting money on Chilton,” she admits, “but military school seems a bit harsh. Even for Tristan.” 

“I know,” Rory agrees. She’s got that wide-eyed look of pity she always gets when Paris is stressed out or sad, except this time it’s not about Paris. A nice change of pace. “You made one hell of a Romeo, though,” she adds more perkily. 

“I did, didn’t I?” Paris boasts, puffing out her chest with pride like a rooster. “I like to think that we’re both each other’s Romeos, though. I mean, I know you told me that you don’t want to be Juliet anymore.” 

“Not exclusively, no.” Rory finishes off her burger, licking a drop of sauce from her pinky finger. “Although-- and not to toot my own horn-- you _were_ right that I look great dead.”

Paris grins at this, remembering Rory’s stellar performance. “Absolutely. You didn’t move a muscle.” 

“I think I can confidently say that this was a step up from _Charlotte’s Web_.”

“You’ll still need to find me pictures of that,” Paris reminds Rory, poking her pointedly in the side with her plastic fork. She’s been pestering Rory about it ever since she first brought it up.

“I _know_ , I know.” Rory rolls her eyes, throwing her head against the back of the car seat and stretching her legs over the car’s central console. It leaves them in a bit of an awkward position, although Paris doesn’t really mind. “Y’know, I actually think that I was better suited to Fern than I am Juliet. She was a do-er, you know? No pigs were going to die on _her_ watch. I can appreciate that.”

They ramble on for a little while afterwards, talking about this and that as the sun sets beneath the town. None of it really matters, but none of it really has to. It’s nice just talking with Rory, finding out whether or not she likes funnel cakes (yes) or arguing about whether fries should be eaten with ranch or ketchup (depends on the seasoning). 

It’s the first time they’re really been able to just talk and hang out as girlfriends, and Paris thinks that if this is what being in a relationship is like, that she’d like for her and Rory to stay this way. Maybe not forever-- high school relationships and whatnot-- but for as long as Paris can reasonably have her. As a first girlfriend, at least, Paris feels as though she truly could not have found anyone better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter? done.  
> this chapter was respectably fluffy but, since all i have left is the resolution, the next chapter will just be, like, 100% fluff. at least, that's what i have planned, my brain sometimes says no to these things when i sit down to write but i don't really anticipate that happening.
> 
> Thanks for reading all this. I'm very aware that been a lot. 
> 
> i've already started thinking up some ideas for these two i'll write when i'm done with this story, not immediately because i have some other things i'm wanting to write first (we'll see how that pans out) but more about that in the next (last!) chapter's authors notes. have a nice day! see you in another couple of weeks

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :) comments and kudos appreciated!


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